Dead Silence Read online

  I was looking for the boat’s sun-bleached hull as I made my way through the mangroves, walking quietly on the boardwalk that leads to my home and lab. I’ve installed a gate at the water’s edge to discourage unwelcome visitors. One of the fishing guides made the sign that hangs there:

  SANIBEL BIOLOGICAL SUPPLY

  MARINE RESEARCH STATION

  The sign is hand-routed teak. Much nicer than the plywood tag some comedian or activist had nailed beneath:

  KILL IT & STUDY IT—THE WHITE MAN’S WAY

  I disengaged the alarm system, closed the gate and could soon see Tomlinson’s boat, moored where it was supposed to be.

  As I walked toward the house, I thought about the surest way of surprising the man. I could borrow a canoe. Or swim?

  No, stealth wasn’t necessary. I wasn’t going to accuse him. My e-mail about Tenth Man might, hopefully, key the retrieval of similar code names from his unconscious, which then would be left to ferment in his short-term memory. I wanted Tomlinson’s unedited reaction, then maybe a brief talk before I collected my gear, got another taxi and headed back to the airport.

  As I approached the house, though, a voice called, “Hey, compadre! Didn’t think you’d get here for another hour. Delta added a new direct from Newark?”

  I stopped at the stairs. Tomlinson was on the upper deck on a beach chair in the sun using two pie pans as reflectors, holding them near his face.

  So much for surprising him.

  As I climbed the stairs, I said, “I chartered a private jet,” expecting him to laugh and he did. I stowed my computer and satchel in the lab, then stepped outside. “You were expecting me?”

  Tomlinson didn’t open his eyes, but he moved the pie pans enough so I could see his face: stringy bleached hair hanging over one shoulder, bikini underwear, bony toes visible over the rims of his Birkenstocks.

  He said, “I was expecting you or the cops. Maybe both. I spent most the night in the lab waiting. Think I ought to get dressed?”

  I was thinking, Cops because of the abduction?, but knew better than to rush to assumptions with Tomlinson. I said, “This is possibly a new record. Four seconds and you’ve already confused me.”

  “Kidnapping and murder, man. Don’t kid a kidder. Cops still make house calls for that sort of thing . . . don’t they?”

  “I’ve heard the rumor.”

  “Good. I neatened up the place just in case.”

  I stepped closer. “You’re admitting it?”

  “Why shouldn’t I admit it? The house was a mess—well, a little messy after some tourist ladies stopped by last night for refreshments . . .”

  “Not that,” I said, “the kidnapping. You’re telling me you were involved? The driver was stabbed to death, for godsakes.”

  Tomlinson opened his eyes. “Huh?”

  “Isn’t that what you’re talking about? Now you’re lying around, soaking up rays, while you wait to be arrested for an abduction that—”

  “Arrest me?” He sat up. “Marion Ford, are you high? They’re not gonna arrest me. I keep an emergency stash in the lab over one of the rafters. Just because you never found it doesn’t mean the pigs won’t. Now it’s gone—that’s all I meant.”

  Stash. Even after all the years I’ve known the man, my brain took a moment to translate. Drugs. Marijuana for sure, and God knows what else.

  He said, “Not that there was much left after the tourist ladies visited. But what there was, I took and put in a nice safe place. So the cops won’t pin it on you when they show up with a search warrant.” He looked at the sky, recalculating the sun’s angle, then moved the beach lounger a few inches, his dreamy expression telling me the women tourists were a lot of fun, I should’ve been there.

  “Search warrant,” I said, trying to be patient. “We’re not all telepathic, Tomlinson. A lot of people might expect, you know, some sort of explanation. The reason you think the police are coming to search my place.”

  He lay back in the chair, looking at me. “You know what I’m talking about.

  You’re the one they’re gonna arrest, not me. Marion, the kimchee is about to hit the fan. You don’t think I know who killed that mutant?”

  Mutant—Tomlinson’s nickname for Bern Heller.

  I thought, Uh-oh.

  He said, “That’s why I came to get rid of evidence. A murder charge will cause some gossip, no doubt. But Doc Ford taking a fall for drug possession? Your whole image would be screwed. Next stop, Freaksville. Once again, marijuana will get a bum wrap for being a gateway drug.”

  The man made a weary sound, getting serious. “You used to claim Tucker Gatrell was the twisted seed in your family. But this thing you’ve got for killing bad guys—whew, Doc, it’s risky karma all around. I’m starting to feel like the loyal sidekick, a Caucasoid Joe Egret. Not as noble, but much hipper of course.”

  “Oh, for sure,” I agreed.

  He was referring to an Everglades legend, also a friend. Joseph Egret had been devoted to my crazed uncle and had a strong influence on me when I was a kid. Both men were dead now. The state had given special permission to bury Joe in a Calusa Indian mound in the ’Glades. The mounds had been built by contemporaries of the Maya, a tribe that predated the Seminoles by several thousand years.

  “Joseph Egret,” Tomlinson added, “that’s exactly who came into my mind as I neatened up after the recent homicide. I’ll stick by you, Doctor, but, man, you’ve got a demon in that noggin of yours that psychotropics just might help. Seriously.”

  Never rush to assumptions with Tomlinson. Abso-damn-lutely right. Staying quiet was the way to deal with this.

  If I didn’t play it right, instead of looking for the kid I’d end up like him: a prisoner, or worse.

  10

  When the black Chrysler skidded into the driveway, Will Chaser gave up pounding on the farmer’s door and sprinted toward the barn. Tried to anyway. The broken rib was like a razor in his chest.

  Headlights swept across him. He heard a door open and the Cuban with the freaky horn hollered, “Stop, you little goat turd!” But the smaller man, the one with metallic eyes, was smart. He yelled in pretty good English, “Your parents are worried! We want to help you.”

  Already explaining why they were chasing him in case someone in the house was listening.

  Adults could say anything. Tell another adult that a kid was a runaway or the cops wanted him for stealing a horse or selling pot, they would believe it. Didn’t matter a goddamn what a kid said, adults listened to adults. Will had lived it.

  Fact was, he was screwed either way. If the Cubans didn’t catch him, cops could jail him after contacting Minneapolis. Police there had a couple of reasons to lock him up, particularly if they’d discovered why his ninth-grade English teacher, Mrs. Thinglestadt, had written the award-winning essay that got him into this mess to begin with.

  “You’re blackmailing me!” she had complained to Will.

  “Laws about buying weed and screwing students got nothing to do with asking a little favor,” he’d replied.

  What if the good-looking older woman had squealed?

  Will popped the barn-door latch, stepped into the warm odor of hay, leather, horses, and then banged the dead bolt solid. Security lights outside were bright enough for him to know he was in the fanciest stable he’d ever seen. A dozen stalls, polished hardwood everywhere, doors with brass bars and carved name placards for each horse. Bricks on the floor were soft, like rubber. Glass chandeliers were suspended from a beam that ran the length of the barn. Like a whorehouse for purebreds.

  Nothing like this in Oklahoma. Where the hell am I?

  In a shitpot full of trouble is exactly where he was. In the distance, he heard someone knocking politely on the farmhouse door, while someone else—the buffalo-headed Cuban probably—rattled the dead bolt, trying to get into the barn.

  Convinced the doors were locked, the man put his lips to the crack and said, “My little friend, I have frightened you. I have come to
apologize, my new little friend.”

  Buffalo-head.

  Will had never met anyone so goddamn dumb. He raised his voice to be heard. “We’re friends? Are you serious?”

  “Yes!”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “My head has stopped bleeding. It is nothing. Look for yourself.”

  “Then say it. Say you promise.”

  “Open this door, you little—” The Cuban caught himself. “Yes, I promise!”

  “Okay. If you mean it, I’ll come out. But I have to use the bathroom. Just a couple of minutes, to take a crap. Please.”

  “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 fling 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.