Dead Silence df-16

by Randy Wayne White

  She let me figure out the significance and moved on. “The Catholic Church takes a big hit. There are documents that prove-well, that suggest anyway-that some priests entered into an alliance with Castro

  … a sort-of covenant. But I can’t go into specifics, sorry.”

  I didn’t need specifics. Barbara was referring to a secret meeting that took place in Havana in 1966 between ten activist priests and Fidel Castro. In return for Castro’s political blessing, the priests activated a plan to encourage and fund Socialism in Central and South America. Over the next two decades, newspaper readers in the United States would puzzle over the political assassinations of nuns and priests in the region. It seemed outrageous to a citizenry that knew nothing about the covert wars going on worldwide, so they suffered with mental images of murdered Flying Nuns and kindly Bing Crosbys.

  I said to Barbara, “A covenant with the Catholic Church, that is a surprise. Was it around the time of the Bay of Pigs invasion… or the assassination?”

  She thought she was being properly evasive, replying, “We found documents our intelligence agencies aren’t going to like. One or two people could face prosecution. Men in powerful positions who betrayed us, their country… I mean, if the information’s accurate.”

  I said, “Bay of Pigs. An informant gave Castro’s people the landing date and time. Didn’t the informant go by a code name? I’m trying to remember…”

  Barbara said, “Why do you do this? Instead of manipulating me to get information, why not come right out and ask?”

  “Okay,” I said, “who was the traitor?” If it was Tinman, would she have even mentioned it?

  The woman said, “I can’t tell you.”

  “Lady, you can be so frustrating-”

  “Not on the phone. There were two informants. At least two-not related to the assassination, so don’t assume that please. But there is something very interesting I learned about the day Kennedy was shot.”

  The woman had lowered her voice. She was enjoying this, I realized, which I found heartening because it reminded me that I was still her confidant… and probably always would be her confidant. We shared an ultimate secret, the secret of her blackmail video. Barbara Hayes-Sorrento might try to distance herself from me, but if she slammed the door she would lose the one person in the world to whom she could say any damn thing she wanted to say with no fear of retribution.

  “Castro kept the phone logs from the morning President Kennedy was shot,” Barbara said, her voice still low. “There were more than two dozen calls to his residence within twenty minutes.”

  I wasn’t just listening now, I was interested. I waited a few seconds before I said, “And…?”

  “And,” she said, “that’s all I can tell you right now.” Her tone became more formal. “Besides, I thought you called to ask for a favor, not chat about the files. We’re busy here, you know.”

  The woman was maddening.

  I started to say, “You’re the one who went off on a tangent,” but dropped it, saying instead, “Okay, fine. I need transportation to Florida… Sarasota, ideally. What can you do for me?”

  “I thought you agreed to stop pestering Mr. Myles.”

  “No, you suggested it. I didn’t agree.”

  “But you expect me to back you? After the hoops you made me jump through to exhume those two dead horses? Waking up judges, calling in favors-for what? And you’re still not convinced!”

  I started to say, “You’ve got to trust my judgment on this-”

  “I want you to stay away from Nelson Myles,” she interrupted. “The man has been patient so far, but you will put both of us in a dangerous position if you keep pushing. On nothing but a hunch? I’m sorry.”

  I said, “Dangerous legal position?”

  “Yes! But also in terms of public opinion.”

  “Public opinion,” I said. “Is that code for getting reelected?”

  “Don’t get smart, Dr. Ford.”

  “One of us needs to. What happened, Barb? Why are you suddenly scared of Nelson Myles?”

  “Power, that’s why,” she said. “It doesn’t scare me, but I respect it. Let’s don’t even get into the damage it could cause to some of my working relationships. But if I doubled my fund-raising schedule starting today, I still couldn’t compete with the kind of money Myles and his friends have. Even if I had ten years left in my term, instead of only two. Plus-and this is the absolute goddamn truth-I respect the opinions of colleagues who know the man.”

  I was tempted to say, “ Respect -another political euphemism for power?,” but instead I asked, “Are some of your colleagues Yale graduates? Members of Skull and Bones maybe?”

  “The fraternity? What does it matter? The point is, all I care about is getting the boy back alive, and you’re wasting time.”

  I said, “If you’ve made up your mind, there’s nothing I can do. I’m open to suggestions.” I was going to Sarasota no matter what, but why tell Barbara and risk putting the man on alert?

  “Doc,” she said, “I value our friendship.” There was nothing phony about the way she said it, but I didn’t reply.

  “The best thing for you to do-for both of us, in fact-is to stay close to me. I need your moral support more than anything, so let’s let the FBI handle it, okay? I can’t sleep, I’m a ball of nerves.” She let that settle, then added,

  “You’re maybe the only man in the world who really understands how hard it is for me to relax.”

  Nothing phony about that either, nor was there any bawdy subtext. The woman was in trouble, isolated by her own office as much as by the anxiety associated with the kidnapping. That fast, I liked her again.

  I said, “How about this? I’ll go home from here, spend a few days, then we can get together after this is done.”

  Her reply surprised me. “How far is Busch Gardens from Sanibel, a couple of hours? Could we meet there tomorrow night?”

  “What?”

  “I wanted to fly Mr. and Mrs. Guttersen into D.C. at my expense. You know, to be near them until this is over, but Dan O’Connell beat me to it by inviting them to tour Busch Gardens. His family has a winter home near there.”

  She added, “The Guttersens are meeting him in Tampa tonight-both of them, hopefully, if Ruth isn’t coming down with the flu. It will be good for all of us, to see this thing through together. Plus the military base at Tampa is our primary intelligence center. It can’t hurt to be within driving distance.”

  “Senator Dan O’Connell?” I said.

  “From Minnesota. He was the friend who asked me to meet William at the airport and take him to the UN. Dan’s got a place on the beach, a house and a couple of guest cottages. I won’t stay with him, I’ll book a suite of rooms nearby. My staff will communicate by phone and Internet. Can you meet me there?”

  My brain was scanning for a way to work it to my advantage. I needed a reason why I had to return to Florida this afternoon, not tomorrow. I said, “I’d love to see you, but I’ve got so much catching up to do at my lab. But… if I could find a faster way home to Sanibel-”

  “You’re doing it again, trying to manipulate me,” she interrupted. “I’ve made the offer. I need you, Doc. But you’ll have to fly commercial just like everyone else. If you change planes in Atlanta, you might run into the Guttersens. Otto Guttersen is a real character, Dan told me. A military background, a real tough guy… You two would hit it off.”

  I was trying to picture the ex-pro wrestler Outlaw Bull Guttersen plowing his wheelchair through sand on some Gulf beach, as Barbara added, “Dan was just here, that’s why I had to call you back. Mr. Guttersen has been through some really bad times in his life, but nothing’s hit him like this.”

  I said, “I was surprised by how emotional he sounded on the phone,” still scanning for a way to finagle a special flight. If I flew out of JFK by three, I could be in Florida by dusk.

  “It would mean a lot to me, Doc, if you were there. It would be good for the Guttersens, too. Give M
r. Guttersen someone to talk to. In Florida, at least, he and his wife can get outside instead of sitting around going stir-crazy waiting for news. Dan told me it’s been freezing cold up there. Something like fifteen below in Minneapolis… not counting windchill.”

  23

  Over the hours, Will dozed, he reminisced, he raged and cried, and occasionally slept, but never for long because he was awakened by nightmares.

  Sometimes, Will imagined that his box was moving. Or possibly it did move, although never very much. The boy couldn’t be sure because his dreams, his thoughts, his memories were all so tangled by the relentless darkness and the drug Ketamine that was still filtering through his veins.

  Hours ago, Will had quit fighting his insistent bladder and decided to piss his jeans whenever he needed. For a time, pissing became his primary recreation, counting in his head to see how long he could keep the stream going. Now his jeans were sodden, but his body was empty of fluids.

  Because he was thirsty, it was pleasurable-for a while anyway-to imagine himself diving into a glacial lake and drinking his fill of water that was crystalline blue like a Minnesota sky.

  But Will had stopped doing that because it made him even thirstier, and also because it was so damn cold inside the box. Freezing, in fact. And Will began to suspect that Buffalo-head had carried out his threat.

  How would you like to be buried in the cold, cold earth?

  Now, mumbling through the tape on his mouth, Will barked a reply, “I wouldn’t like it worth a damn, you creep.”

  My God, he was cold! No wind. No light. Maybe the bastards really had buried him!

  As he pondered that, Will became aware of a red-tinted darkness blooming behind his eyes, but he stopped it, thinking, Don’t… Don’t, terrified of the insanity that threatened from just beyond the limits of his own anger.

  It was safer to focus on how cold he was rather than the heat attempting to fire his temper, so Will moved his thoughts there.

  Colder than a nun at a prison rodeo. Colder than a well-digger’s ass. Colder than Custer’s nuts! Colder than… Colder than… Well, it’s no colder than downtown Minneapolis in January, with snow falling.

  One below-not counting windchill.

  Bull Guttersen’s line. The man claimed to be seriously thinking of putting it on his tombstone-if no one had used it first, of course. He was a stickler about originality. Intellectual property, he called it, and he had confided to Will that the wrestling characters he’d invented, Outlaw Bull Gutter or Sheriff Bull Gutter, might one day make them all wealthy.

  “Just you watch,” the man had said. “When Hollywood finally gets hold of its senses and stops making them candy-ass, cartoon-robot shoot-’em-ups, they’ll snoop around for a new hero until they sniff gold. Never been two finer intellectual properties created than Outlaw Bull and Sheriff Bull, so I expect we’ll cash in before I die.”

  We’ll cash in, talking like Will was an actual member of the family instead of just temporary, although Bull had demanded a second-year extension to the Lutherans’ usual one-year guardianship.

  It was weird for Will to think of himself dead and buried before the old man beat him to it. Especially considering how they’d met that first day when Guttersen had said something flippant about the garbage bag Will had been carrying, miffed that his suicide had been interrupted.

  Guttersen’s revolver had been loaded with. 38 caliber Hydra-Shoks. Will could picture them in the cylinder now, as he retreated into a safer venue of thought. The bullets had looked as symmetrical as spider eggs when Guttersen lowered the gun from his own temple and pointed it at Will’s chest.

  The bullets had ugly, puckered golden tips. They were called Man Stoppers at Minneapolis gun shows and marketed exactly for such an occasion: home alone, enjoying the comforts of a remodeled basement-a little bar and a flat-screen TV-only to be interrupted by a robber whose dark skin indicated that he probably was a crack addict and also unpredictable, unlike teenagers of Norwegian descent.

  Instead, Will had heard click as the gun’s cylinder rotated and the hammer locked back, Guttersen making his smart-assed remark about him being disinclined to offer Will a beer while waiting for the ambulance.

  What happened next, though, was the strangest part of what had already been a strange, strange day. Guttersen had flipped the revolver around and caught it by the barrel. The move had spooked Will so badly that he threw his hands up and closed his eyes, expecting to be shot. A second later, though, when he peeked, Will was surprised to see the man extending his arm, wanting Will to take the gun.

  Guttersen had said to him, patiently, “You gotta pull the hammer back before you fire. It’s single-action. And don’t close your damn eyes! If you miss, I swear to God I’ll testify against you in court.”

  Will had said, “Do what?,” even though he knew what the man wanted.

  “Take the damn gun!”

  Will had curled his fingers around the gun’s weight, his thumb automatically finding the hammer, as Guttersen told him, “My coin collection’s in the pantry, what looks like a candy box. There’s a Mercury dime worth five hundred bucks, I shit thee not. And a hundred seven Liberty-head silver dollars-you can figure that one out for yourself.”

  Will understood more about that than the old man realized. He liked coins and had kept a few from the pawnbroker. “The dime-must be the 1940-S, huh?” he offered.

  “Mint condition,” Guttersen told him. “But pay attention, damn it, I’m trying to talk. My wife keeps her jewelry in the commercial freezer. One of those Tupperware-thingee containers. Most of it’s fake, but, Jesus Christ, don’t let word get back to her-especially the diamond necklace, which is zirconium. She’ll pretend it don’t bother her, but she’ll do it in a way that drives everybody nuts. Not that you won’t find plenty of other valuables,” the man had added quickly. “Don’t get me wrong.”

  Guttersen began moving his wheelchair as he gave instructions, positioning himself near the bar where there was Mexican tile, not carpet: less mess, and a clear shot for Will.

  The old man said, “My wife left for the hairdresser’s only ’bout half an hour ago, but sometimes she forgets stuff and comes back unannounced. And some of those-what do you call ’em?- technicians color roots faster than others, so you never know. Catch my meaning? We don’t have time to waste.”

  The man had paused and looked at the boy for a moment before warning, “About my wife… don’t you lay a damn hand on her. Hear me? You touch my wife, I’ll come back from the grave and tear you a new asshole. Savvy?”

  Jesus, talking like they were in a TV western, Will being the dumb Indian, but a fire spark glowed in the old man’s eyes so Will didn’t comment, even after the spark faded.

  Guttersen had turned the chair so he was looking at photos that hung over the bar. He straightened his T-shirt, took a deep breath and cleared his throat. Then he said, “Okay. I’m ready. Go.”

  Will had looked at the gun but didn’t answer.

  “Hear me? I said, ‘Ready.’ ”

  Will was still staring at the revolver, seeing the fake-pearl handle, the chrome flaking on the cylinder-a piece of junk.

  “Jesus-frogs, you deaf, too?”

  “I heard what you said: You’re ready.”

  “Goddamn right I’m ready. I’m overdue ready!” Guttersen squared his shoulders and tilted his left temple toward Will. “All righty.. .” He took another deep, slow breath. “Here we go-and keep your damn eyes open! You owe me that. You’re about to come into some money.”

  Standing in the basement of what the Lutheran Grandparents Program had assigned as his foster home, Will had then experienced an abrupt change of aspect, a camera-on-the-ceiling view that often occurred when something unusually shitty or dangerous happened in his life-a phenomenon he had experienced too many times.

  Will stood there, a head taller than the big Norwegian in his wheelchair, seeing the room from above. A darkness tinted the space, a hopelessness that smelled of brittle
paper and ironing.

  Through the tinted air, he could see the old man, sitting with his head bowed, waiting to die, and the pool table, a SCHMIDT BEER neon sign over the bar, a jar of pickled eggs, bottles of booze in a row, a MINNESOTA TWINS pennant, photos on the wall of what looked like wrestlers, a JOE FOR EMPEROR sticker and two cowboy hats on a deer-horn rack-big, felt bullshit hats no wrangler would ever wear. One hat black, the other white.

  Will had zoomed in and was examining himself, standing like a dope, holding the stainless-steel revolver, which was brighter, bigger than everything else in the room except for an old floor-model radio that Will’s ears had stopped hearing until that moment, possibly because a commercial break had just ended and the announcer now was on the subject of guns. He was saying, “… scientists have built a giant electromagnet in the Rocky Mountains. When they hit the switch, all the handguns in America will be sucked from holsters, bedrooms, locked closets-you name it. Guns’ll bust through walls, knock holes in roofs, that’s how strong the magnet is…”

  Will’s eyes descended from the ceiling as he listened. After a minute or two, he was on the floor again, right back beside the wheelchair, when the old man said, “Jesus Christ, you waiting for me to die of old age? Pull the freakin’ trigger!”

  Will said, “I was listening to the guy on the radio.”

  “Well, stop listening and start shooting, goddamn it. I’m starting to lose the mood.”

  “That thing about the giant magnet, is it bullshit?”

  “Huh?”

  “What the guy said about pulling guns through walls.”

  The man looked up, irritated. “It’s a radio show, for chrissake! What’s a matter? You afraid that magnet’s gonna rip your damn arm off when that gun flies out the window?”