Dead Silence df-16

by Randy Wayne White

He nudged the blanket back enough to free his right arm.

  Cazzio snorted, skin fluttering. He whinnied and tested his legs, steel shoes on the floor, an animal that was born for business. He sensed the Cubans approaching, a subtle change of air.

  Will felt it, too: a color sensation, tan turning red.

  Easy. You’ll know.

  In the medicine cooler, there had been a lot to choose from once Will saw there wasn’t a weapon worth a damn in it aside from veterinarian syringes and some scalpels. Also a pack of big-gauge needles and several vials of tranquilizers, a few with familiar names.

  There was Dormo, which was fast but didn’t last, and Rompon – a horse on Rompon could remain tart enough to kick. He also found a vial of Ace, a mixture of stuff that would have been Will’s choice if it was for Cazzio but it wasn’t.

  He had chosen Ketamine. Ket caused quick paralysis but didn’t deaden what a horse could feel. One-third syringe would drop a horse, but Will had emptied a whole vial and part of another filling a syringe. He didn’t bother plunging out any air bubbles either before lashing the syringe to the pole.

  The pole was now a spear. No, a lance, the way Will held it: the end locked beneath his arm, the point extending beyond the horse’s muzzle.

  “Check the stalls! The man just called from his car, he’s only a few kilometers away,” Metal-eyes was yelling at Buffalo-head, who was now peering into Cazzio’s stall.

  The man-someone the Cubans were counting on to do… what?

  It worried Will, this unknown person. He wanted to be gone by the time the stranger arrived, so he was thinking, Don’t stop, keep coming

  …

  Buffalo-head did just that but slowly, slowly. The large Cuban appeared unsteady as he drew close enough to see into Cazzio’s stall. Sounded nervous, too, as he reported to Metal-eyes, “Nothing in here but a very big horse.”

  “Keep looking!”

  Hump didn’t want to keep looking. “You have never seen such a large animal. I should have the gun. Horses bite, I have been told.”

  “You can’t have the gun.”

  “Then come with me. On my grave, this horse is a giant, I swear.”

  “Idiot! Would you rather be in an American jail?”

  Will could feel Cazzio’s body heat as he wrapped his left hand in the horse’s mane, watching from beneath the blanket, as the big Cuban cracked the door and looked into the stall. Because of the headlights, Will could see the man’s shape: the sloped shoulders, the nub of horn that curved like a stem out of his pumpkin-sized head.

  Cazzio nickered, sniffing the Cuban’s odor, and tested his steel shoes on the floor, as Will patted the horse’s neck and thought, Ready?

  A second later, Buffalo-head called to Metal-eyes, “If the man’s only a few miles away, why not wait? It would be better if there are three of us.”

  Will heard the older Cuban snap, “You’re afraid of a child? We’re not waiting!”

  Buffalo-head pulled the door wider, as he turned toward the headlights, saying, “Want to know what I think?”

  “No! Stop wasting time. The man is already convinced we are incompetent fools.”

  “Then I won’t tell you that I believe the boy is cursed. Or possessed by demons-I have heard that it happens to teenagers.”

  Will was thinking, Wait and see!, his shoulders tense, still hiding beneath the blanket. He knew he had to time it right. Move too soon, the Cubans would trap him inside the barn. So he kept his eyes focused on the angle of light, watching the door open wider… wider… until only the huge man was standing in the doorway, blocking their escape.

  When Buffalo-head looked away to complain to Metal-eyes, “But the Devil Child is insane. A monster!,” Will used his boots to signal the stallion and yelled, “Now!”

  The stallion was already lunging out the door.

  11

  Bern Heller’s body had washed ashore. There was a story about it in the regional newspaper, the News-Press. That’s why Tomlinson expected the police to show up with a search warrant.

  Sections of paper were scattered beneath the man’s beach chair, where he was still stretched out sunning himself. The front page of the local section was folded open.

  When I saw the headlines, I felt a constricting anxiety and thought, I’ve got to get out of here. EX-NFL PLAYER FOUND POLICE TO PROBE DROWNING OF CONVICTED MURDERER, RAPIST

  It explained Tomlinson’s fears about a search warrant. A lot of people had reason to hate the man, yet my pal sounded convinced that I was the killer.

  Why?

  He had placed a book on the newspaper because of a breeze freshening off the bay. Wind roiled the water, whitecaps flashing near the oyster bar where pelicans and cormorants perched, leeward side, heavy in the rubbery mangroves.

  I removed the book- Shadow Country by Peter Matthiessen-and placed it on the deck before grabbing the newspaper. The front section was still in the plastic baggie untouched.

  To demonstrate I wasn’t worried and wasn’t in a hurry, I ignored the local section, with its headlines about Bern Heller, and read the front-page national section.

  The lead story was about the attempted abduction of Senator Barbara Hayes-Sorrento and the missing boy. Only a dozen paragraphs had made this early island edition, but there was a photo of Barbara and a photo of one of the entrances to the Explorers Club. There was also a sidebar about the murdered limo driver.

  The boy, Will Chaser, wasn’t named. An “unidentified pedestrian” was credited with detaining one of the kidnappers.

  I asked Tomlinson, “You didn’t read the national section?”

  “Never made it that far.” He motioned vaguely to the deck beneath his chair. “No need to play it cool with me. I can tell you’re worried shitless. Take a look at the story about Heller, you’ll understand.”

  As I knelt to retrieve the local pages, he added, “You don’t have to worry about me narcing you to the cops. I’m no Judas.”

  “It’s unusual for you to make biblical references on a Friday. Getting a jump on the weekend guilts?”

  “In your e-mail, isn’t that why you mentioned Tenth Man? Thirty pieces of silver-hell, they could offer me thirty blotters of Frisco ’68, I still wouldn’t blabber.”

  I said, “Here’s a concept: Some people ask questions because they want an answer. Me, for instance.”

  “That’s my answer: Judas was the Tenth Man, the tenth disciple. You sent the e-mail, worried I was going to rat you out to the cops. That’s the way I interpreted it.”

  Had Choirboy said Tenth Man or Tinman? Interesting distinction. It offered an entirely different meaning, but I was concentrating on the newspaper now. The body of a man found floating off Naples Pier, has been identified as former NFL lineman Bern Heller, 38, of Indian Harbour. Heller was sentenced to life in prison for murder but released from Florida State Penitentiary, Raiford, last month pending a hearing. Heller, who was principal owner of Indian Harbour Marina, was found guilty of second-degree murder seven months ago and was awaiting trial for additional charges that included murder, kidnapping and multiple rapes. Heller was reported missing from his live-aboard yacht at Indian Harbour six days ago by a friend and occasional roommate, Tripper Oswald of Fort Myers. The marina is in the final stages of foreclosure. Only Heller was living on the property, according to Citi Management Corporation, the mortgage holder. A Wisconsin native, Heller was convicted of the shooting death of Capt. Javier Castillo, a popular local fishing guide. Capt. Castillo’s widow and two children have been the benefactors of recent charity functions sponsored by Dinkin’s Bay Marina on Sanibel. Heller’s arrest made national headlines, and his testimony may have contributed to investigations into the effects of steroid rage associated with crimes committed by professional athletes. According to the Lee County Medical Examiner’s Office, the cause of death will not be released until police finish their investigation. According to a statement issued yesterday by Heller’s attorney, there are “sufficient anomalies” to sugge
st the former football star was a victim of foul play. Oswald and members of Heller’s family have retained a private investigator. According to the sheriff’s department, the investigation into the former star’s death is continuing…

  I had tuned out Tomlinson but now looked up from the paper after he banged me on the shoulder, asking, “Are you listening to me? This is serious shit, man.”

  I said, “Heller’s dead. Good. I don’t see what that has to do with me.” I folded the paper and carried it to the railing. My shark pen was below: a rectangle of net and wire kept afloat by basketball-sized buoys at each corner.

  Sharks are delicate, complex animals. The bull shark, Carcharhinus Leucas, is one of my primary interests as a researcher. Leucas is known by several names worldwide, including Zambezi River shark and Lake Nicaragua shark. It swims hundreds of miles up rivers to feed and possibly reproduce in freshwater lakes. The shark is also responsible for more attacks on humans than great whites or tiger sharks.

  Because I had been traveling, the pen was empty. A five-hundred-pound shark is not the invincible killer portrayed in films. The animal requires constant care and is fussy about what it eats in captivity. I no longer take risks with the sharks I use for research. I would rather release a dozen of them than return home after a trip to find one dead.

  Through the clear water, I saw a school of mullet daisy-chaining, stirring detritus clouds with their tails. Angel-striped spadefish flashed in slow arcs near pilings. Where water deepened, snook were stacked in shadows, muscled densities orderly as rungs.

  Tomlinson was still talking. “That investigator the paper mentions, I met him. He was nosing around the marina last night, asking questions at Sanibel Marina, and Tween Waters, too. Seedy little gumshoe of a guy, you ask me.”

  I nodded: Good.

  “The county fuzz, that’s who you need to worry about. They showed up last night, the lead detective in an unmarked Chevy. Her name’s Palmer, Detective Palmer, an interesting-looking woman. She’s got the typical hard-ass attitude, but there’s some wisdom in her face. Palmer’s smart. She’s also ambitious.”

  I shrugged: Bad?

  I was scanning the rest of the story, hoping to see a mention of the watch Heller was wearing, as Tomlinson said, “Detective Palmer was interested in the Cheesehead’s wristwatch,” breaking into my thoughts. It wasn’t the first time he had done something like that.

  I played it straight. “What’s his watch have to do with anything?”

  “When they found him, Heller was wearing a cheap rubber watch. Not waterproof. They figure it stopped the day he drowned. Like in the movies, you know, the broken watch determines the time of death. The paper says he’s been missing since”-because Tomlinson was reaching, I handed him the newspaper-“Heller was reported missing six days ago. It was also the day the watch stopped. So the date would have been… Saturday, January seventeenth?”

  I said, “The detective told you all this?”

  “Yeah… I mean, no. Yes, it was the seventeenth. No, Palmer didn’t tell me. I pieced it together from the questions she asked the fishing guides.”

  He rattled the paper for emphasis, then stuffed it under the chair. “You flew to New York last Friday, the sixteenth, right, Doc?”

  Tomlinson was staring at me now. I stared back. “You know I did. Apparently, I left the day before Heller died. Which means you’re wrong. Police have no reason to come after me.”

  “I’m not an expert on watches, but couldn’t a killer click the date ahead, then break the thing on purpose? A really shrewd person, I’m talking about.”

  I said, “With saltwater drowning, it’s not easy to pinpoint the time of death. Because fish and crabs and things aren’t fussy about what they eat. A smart killer wouldn’t bother planting a broken watch. And a dumb killer wouldn’t think of it. That makes the watch gambit unlikely.”

  Tomlinson got up, nodding. I watched him go into the lab, giving me a look, before he let the screen door swing closed, his expression saying Okay, okay, if that’s the way you want to play it…

  I went downstairs to double-check my boat. Heller’s family was pushing police to look for his killer? I had a lot to do.

  A few minutes later, I heard a screen door swing closed. Tomlinson came down the steps, wearing faded jeans and a tie-dyed T-shirt that read RELIGION IS A COMPASS, NOT A HARNESS.

  He was carrying an antique bag, once called a Gladstone, leather and brass.

  I was coiling a water hose. Before leaving for New York, I had double-scrubbed the boat’s deck. An extra shot of water and half a bottle of degreaser couldn’t hurt. DNA can be as stubborn as any stain.

  “Going somewhere?” I asked him.

  As Tomlinson said, “That’s up to you, man,” the cell phone Barbara Hayes-Sorrento gave me began to buzz. I wiped my hands on a towel and fished the thing from my pocket. The senator had sent a text message.

  Tomlinson said, “Doc, there’re a couple things you should know. First is, Detective Palmer told one of the guides Heller hated rubber watches. She was asking around about a gold Rolex. I remember good ol’ Bern wearing a gold Rolex when he showed up at the marina party last week and also the day he slugged you. Loud and gaudy, a watch just like him. Remember that day?”

  “If I didn’t, the headaches would remind me,” I said, studying the phone. I was squinting at the menu, trying to figure out how to retrieve Barbara’s message.

  “There’s something else. It hasn’t made the news.” Because Tomlinson paused, wanting me look at him, I intentionally did not look away from the phone.

  “Heller had a girl aboard his boat that night-the night before you left for New York.”

  Now I looked. A shocker. I tried not to show it but the man knew me too well.

  “It’s such a bummer, I didn’t even want to tell you,” he said, sounding worried. “There’s a witness, Doc. Nothing we can do about it. You don’t need a compass to know when karma turns south. And sometimes I wish we were all born with an anchor hooked to our ass. A way to stop the negative flow, I’m talking about?”

  “A witness to what?” I said, thinking back, trying to picture the interior of Heller’s boat. The place had been a pigsty, but I’d seen no signs of a female guest.

  Tomlinson said, “She claims Heller abducted her and was trying to rape her. He’d torn off most of her clothes but stopped when a man knocked at the cabin door. It was late: two a.m. or later. She told police it was a big guy, clean-shaven. He wore his glasses strung around his neck with fishing line.”

  “How do you know this?” I had opened Barbara’s message but was now giving Tomlinson my full attention.

  “Someone involved in law enforcement told me. That’s all I can say.”

  “A reliable source?”

  “Better than just reliable. And no more questions, okay?”

  “There are a lot of boaters who use fishing line to secure their glasses,” I offered, then realized I was doing what guilty people always do, trying to impeach the facts.

  Tomlinson said, “No need to convince me. But I’m worried you might have to try and convince a jury. If you’d spent your life abusing drugs, like a normal person, your skills as a liar would be more highly evolved. As it is, I think your ass is on the line, pal. The witness got a good, long look at the killer, my friend in law enforcement says.”

  I didn’t want to risk mentioning that there was no moon that night so I kept it safe, asking, “What did she see exactly?”

  “Heller and the guy started fighting, the woman told police. She was in the forward stateroom, they were in the salon. She grabbed what was left of her clothes and climbed out the front hatch to get away. She lay there and listened to the whole thing. Saw some of it.

  “She said the fighting stopped after a minute or two. Then, she says, the guy wearing glasses tied up Heller and swam off, towing him like a wagon. Heller kicked and splashed, but the guy kept swimming. He had to have been one hell of a strong swimmer to haul a tub like th
at mutant.”

  Tomlinson let the sun bake his face for a moment, letting me think about that, before saying, “Your daily workouts are about as public as it gets, compadre. You either jog to the pool and swim laps there or you run a couple miles on the beach, then swim to the NO WAKE markers off the Island Inn. How many miles a week are you doing now, five or six? I’ve never seen you in better shape in your life. And the way you do it, so public and all, it won’t be hard to find witnesses.”

  I said, “There’s nothing illegal about working out. You were telling me about the girl Heller tried to rape.”

  “Oh… well… she grabbed her stuff and got the hell off that boat, while you… while the guy wearing glasses… swam Heller out beyond the lights. She says she ran to the main road, and called her sister.

  “Because she was afraid, or maybe embarrassed, she didn’t tell anyone what happened until three days ago, when she finally went to a doctor. But she chose a private clinic in Miami for some reason. And she tried to use a fake name.”

  I said, “Hmm,” not sure what that was supposed to mean. Miami was across the Everglades on the Atlantic Coast.

  Tomlinson said, “The doctor didn’t buy her story so he contacted social services. They’re the ones who called police. Amazing story, huh?”

  I said, “Lucky timing. I’m glad for her,” and meant it.

  “There’s nothing lucky about Universal Mind and divine intervention.”

  “If you say so.”

  “The girl thinks Heller would have killed her. He’d already beaten her pretty bad, which is why the sister made her get X-rays. The guy wearing glasses saved her life.”

  I caught myself as I reached to straighten my glasses and instead looked at my watch. “I hope she’s okay. But if Heller was still alive the last time she saw him, it doesn’t prove anything.”

  Tomlinson agreed. “He was struggling, splashing, definitely alive, from what my law enforcement friend told me. But isn’t a dead Cheesehead in the water a little like a trout in the milk? Considering who you are, I mean, and what that asshole mutant did to Javier?”