Dead Silence

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  He appears to have come alone, but Barnes senses he has not. He scans the narrow beach, bordered by vegetation. He suspects someone is watching from a clump of coconut trees.

  “Who told you that I was looking for you?”

  “It’s a small town. NYPD comes sniffing around—people have your back.”

  “Yeah, don’t worry. I’m not here looking for anything but a vacation.”

  “That’s what I hear. A nice family vacation. Your friend’s family, not yours. Yours is . . .” He trails off with measured deliberation and smiles, his eyes hidden behind the glasses.

  He’s baiting you. Don’t say a word.

  “Hmm. Where is your daughter these days?” Wayland asks.

  There’s no way he can possibly know about Charisse. Stay cool.

  “What are you talking about? I don’t have—”

  “Sure you do. Born back on . . . let’s see, I know it was a memorable day for me. October 24, 1987, correct?”

  The words hit Barnes like a knockout punch on an invincible champion about to be taken down by a nobody. Dazed, reeling, he can only stare as Wayland hits him again.

  “I guess you’re pretty protective of daddy’s little girl, aren’t you? Wouldn’t want to see anything happen to her . . . I know how that goes.”

  Barnes recovers to deliver a jab of his own. “Do you? Because you took off and left your three children.”

  “They didn’t need me. They’re all grown-up now, doing just fine. But your daughter . . . how’s she doing?”

  “Just fine.”

  “A lie.”

  His heart stops. “What do you mean by that?”

  “You just said you didn’t have a daughter, so you lied to me. And now I see . . . are you worried about her?”

  He shakes his head slowly.

  “So you know how she is, then, your daughter? Where she is? Who she is?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Well, good. That makes two of us.”

  It’s impossible.

  Yet Wayland knows that Charisse was born, knows when she was born . . .

  Does he really know where she is? Or . . .

  Who she is . . . the phrasing is peculiar.

  “You look surprised, Detective. Maybe you thought you were the only one who likes to keep tabs on people, just in case . . .”

  “In case what?” Barnes takes a step closer.

  Wayland isn’t a large or muscular man. Barnes is.

  Barnes sees his hand clench the walking stick a little harder but catches him giving a little nod at something over Barnes’s shoulder.

  Turning, he sees that as he’d suspected, they aren’t alone on the beach. Ah, the coconut trees. Not one, but several people have emerged from the clump. They stand shoulder to shoulder like jungle warriors, holding bamboo walking sticks like spears. All are long-haired, and the males have beards. Scrutinizing their faces, Barnes recognizes one. The man with the caterpillar eyebrows had been at the paladar last night with Wayland, had given a bleeding Barnes his bandana.

  He turns back to Wayland as if they’re old friends in the midst of a casual conversation. “You were saying?”

  “That a man will do whatever it takes to protect his family. Isn’t that right, Detective?”

  “I’d say you failed miserably in that regard, Perry.”

  “And I’d say you’re as clueless about my family’s whereabouts and identification as you are about your own.”

  It’s Wayland’s turn to step closer. Coward. He wouldn’t dare if he didn’t have a posse there to back him up.

  A large wave crashes at their feet.

  Wayland turns to look at the sea.

  “It’s coming. A storm of mighty, overflowing waters. If I were you, Detective Barnes, I’d leave Baracoa before it arrives.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m going to.”

  “A wise move. And after you’ve left Cuba, forget about it. Don’t ever come back, or look back, or tell anyone about your time here. Because if you do . . .” Wayland lifts his walking stick with both hands, snaps it in half, and tosses the pieces onto the ground. “Are we clear?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Good.” Wayland walks away to join his friends, leading the way as they slip into the trees.

  “A destroying storm, as a flood of mighty waters overflowing . . .”

  Isaiah 28:2.

  Barnes had learned about the biblical prophet back in Sunday school, and is familiar with the verses about God’s wrath and judgment day.

  So, it seems, is Perry Wayland.

  Back when Barnes was investigating his disappearance, his wife had mentioned that he wasn’t particularly religious. Something seems to have changed in the decades between—decades presumably spent with Gypsy Colt, daughter of the doomsday zealot Oran Matthews.

  Another ferocious wave sweeps in, this time ankle deep. Barnes moves toward dry ground as the broken bamboo pieces are swept out into the raging sea behind him.

  Amelia closes the front door behind her and leans against it, eyes closed.

  This is her haven, has been since the first time Silas Moss welcomed her into his home. She absorbs the hush—her own breathing, the ticking antique mantel clock in the next room—and then it’s shattered by an anguished, guttural scream from upstairs.

  Her eyes fly open.

  It’s not Jessie. Her car isn’t in the driveway, and the voice is male.

  She rushes for the steps. “Billy? Theodore?”

  Neither. The man at the top of the flight is a stranger.

  Terror detonates and an inner voice screams at her to flee even as she meets and holds his gaze, some part of her brain noting details.

  He’s blond . . .

  Wearing a brown coat and a startled expression . . .

  Holding a knife. A knife.

  Be fierce, Bettina had told her years ago, teaching her how not to become a crime statistic.

  The man will descend and attack.

  Unarmed, she will die if she doesn’t flee.

  But if she flees, then someone else will die.

  Jessie’s husband, her son, Prewitt . . .

  Amelia will not flee. She will be fierce.

  She holds her ground. But the man turns and retreats down the upstairs hall, away from the stairs. He shouts something, words she doesn’t understand. They’re foreign—French, he’s speaking French, and she knows now who he is: Prewitt’s dangerous man.

  If he’s talking to someone up there, then someone is still alive.

  Moving toward the stairs, Amelia slips her cell phone from her pocket, slips the button to silent mode, and dials 9–1–1 as she ascends. About to hit Send, she reaches the empty second-floor hallway and sees that the door to her own room is ajar. She’d left it closed, bolted, with her kitten inside.

  Again, her feet carry her forward, her thumb hovering over the Send button as she peers into the room.

  He’s there, in a frenzied search, checking behind the curtains, under the bed, alongside the wardrobe. Clancy’s carrier lies on its side on the rug, high-pitched mews coming from within. The man doesn’t seem to hear them, or notice Amelia there in the doorway, but if she connects the emergency call, he’ll most certainly hear the operator’s answering voice.

  She opens a message window instead.

  Jessie might be driving, and her phone’s battery had been almost dead.

  But Aaron . . .

  Even if he’s on a flight, he’ll have Wi-Fi. He’ll see a text.

  She quickly types, life & death, need police @ Jessie’s NOW, and sends the message as the stranger yanks open the closet door.

  He thrashes through the hanging garments, shoving them aside. Then he stops short with a chilling staccato laugh.

  He’s found Chip’s treasure cave.

  He tugs the panel and pulls it from the closet.

  Amelia’s heart lurches when she hears a child’s frightened cry. The intruder laughs again, this time louder, longer. He exclaims in
French and reaches into the closet.

  She turns away, searching the hall behind her as if the rescue she’d summoned via text might have instantly, silently, materialized. But no, she’s on her own, unarmed . . .

  Fierce.

  There’s a gun safe in the master bedroom. She knows the combination. But even if she had the time to find it and open it, she doesn’t know how to shoot.

  Her gaze falls on Billy’s toolbox, where he’d left it on the hallway floor. She backs stealthily toward it and bends to grasp the metal latch. She gives it a tug, certain it will be locked.

  She’s wrong.

  The lid lifts, and she sees a hammer lying right on top.

  “Let him go!” Theodore shouts. “Or I’ll shoot you!”

  Amelia grasps the hammer and spins back to the room.

  The intruder is clutching Prewitt, and Theodore is . . .

  Oh, Theodore, no!

  He’s in the closet, arms straight out, both hands aiming a gun.

  Billy’s gun? It must be. Theodore must have overheard the password, or guessed it.

  “Let him go!” he shouts again.

  For a moment, it seems as though the stranger is going to obey the command.

  But even Amelia can tell that Theodore’s entire body is trembling. He barely has a grasp on the weapon.

  In one swift movement, the man drops Prewitt to the floor and plucks the gun away from the boy. Seeing him take aim, finger on the trigger, Amelia hurtles herself forward and swings the hammer. She misses, and the gun goes off, but she’d thrown him off balance and the bullet lodges into the wall. Enraged, he reels toward her.

  Be fierce.

  She swings again with all her strength, and this time, the hammer’s iron head slams into his shoulder. The man staggers. Theodore tackles him from behind, making a grab for the gun, and they both tumble to the floor and roll. Amelia sees Theodore’s glasses fly across the room. The man’s finger fumbles again for the trigger, finding it.

  “No!” she screams.

  He jams the muzzle against Theodore’s skull just as she brings the hammer down on his.

  She feels the crack of bone beneath steel.

  Blood spatters from the gaping split in his forehead; his eyes close; his body goes slack.

  Theodore, breathing hard, struggles to his feet. He opens his mouth but can’t form words.

  Amelia, too, is dumbstruck. Even the kitten seems to have been stunned to silence.

  In this moment, in this room, only one voice, Prewitt’s, emerges, loud and clear. “Il est mort.”

  “Damn, brother,” Kurtis mutters under his breath to Joaquin.

  “Told you.”

  “Yeah, you did. You sure did.”

  In all his twenty-nine years, Kurtis has never seen a woman so fine. He sure wouldn’t expect to find her in what must be the most isolated spot in Cuba’s most isolated town, or rather, outside of it.

  To reach this place, Joaquin had poled a small boat across a gleaming shady green lagoon surrounded by a dense tangle of mangroves. Then they’d hiked a steep, serpentine trail through lush rainforest to this small shack in a sun-dappled cove alongside a waterfall. Joaquin kept promising him that it would be worth it.

  It is.

  Framed against a backdrop of lush green foliage, she’s like some wild jungle goddess, willowy limbs bared in a soft-looking earth-toned garment.

  At a glance, she appears Latina. But she’s white, with sun-bronzed skin. Her delicate features are framed by a mane of dark hair, and she has the most unusual eyes he’s ever seen, like purple glass.

  She’s older, he’s aware, but not old—not like his father.

  Then, moving closer and getting a better look, he realizes that she might, in fact, be even older than Rob.

  But that’s cool. He can tell just by looking at her that she’s the kind of person who, unlike his old man, understands that age is just a number, no matter whether it’s low or high or higher. She wouldn’t think that just because he’s about to turn thirty, he should have his shit together. She’d believe it’s a tragic waste for someone like him to take the damned train to a damned corporate job in the damned city every damned day.

  He knows this about her, knows it deep in his gut, at a glance, because there’s something about her that’s just . . .

  She smiles at him, only at him, and croons in good old American-accented English, “I’ve been waiting for you, Kurtis. Come on inside and we can get better acquainted in private.”

  Damn.

  He turns to Joaquin and is dismayed to find him stripping off his tee shirt, revealing a lean, muscled torso and a small horse-shaped tattoo on his left pec.

  Whoa, hold on now.

  If Joaquin is planning on joining them inside, then, well, Kurtis needs to speak up and say that it’s cool and all, but threesomes aren’t his jam.

  Seeing his expression, Joaquin grins and motions for him to go ahead into the shack. “It’s okay. I’m just taking a swim.”

  He heads off toward the pool of rippling water at the base of the waterfall, and Kurtis exhales in relief.

  Joaquin had brought him here to get high, acknowledging that his country leaves a lot to be desired when it comes to that. He’d guaranteed that she’d have excellent drugs, and that she’d be more beautiful than any American movie star he’d ever seen. The second promise is certainly true. Kurtis suspects he’s about to verify the first—and judging by her provocative invitation, maybe something far more enticing that Joaquin had hinted at.

  Kurtis isn’t one to turn down excellent drugs or a beautiful woman. But he hesitates, urban street smarts kicking in. Maybe his old man’s warning, too, about what happens to you if you’re caught with drugs in Cuba.

  “There is zero tolerance, son. Zero tolerance! You will rot in a Cuban prison and regret it for the rest of your life.”

  “They give life imprisonment for drugs?”

  “They give twenty, thirty years, and believe me, you will not survive that hell, Kurtis.”

  He’d bristled at that. He could survive in prison. Sure he could. Better here in Cuba than in some New Jersey shithole . . . right?

  He sure as hell doesn’t want to find out from experience.

  What if this is some kind of elaborate setup? A few times, over the past day or so, he’s felt as if someone might be watching him, even following him. Not that those had been sober moments. Drugs might be off-limits here in Cuba, but alcohol flows freely. Still . . .

  He thinks back to Friday afternoon. He’d gone into town to score some weed to take the edge off his nerves after that flight.

  Turns out the scene is way underground here, and it had taken some cautious finagling, his father’s words of caution about undercover Cuban cops ringing in his ears. Finally, he’d connected with a couple of American backpackers, college kids who’d been willing to share their hard-won stash.

  Making his way back to the casa particular after dark, he’d found that his old man was still off climbing some stupid mountain, and Uncle Stockton had gone out, probably in search of the bottled water Kurtis had promised him. He’d brought back a case—too late. He’d lit up a blunt and was loading the water into the fridge when he’d heard a knock on the door.

  Figuring it was his father or uncle—and, truth be told, a little worried that it might be the police—he’d hidden the joint in the freezer and fanned the air. He’d been relieved to open the door to a young Cuban man about his age. He was wiry and lean, with shaggy dark hair, and clad in a black tee shirt, jeans, and sandals.

  He’d greeted Kurtis with a casual “Que vola?” and flashed the friendliest smile he’d seen in ages.

  Turned out Joaquin was looking for an acere who’d been staying at the house, but he didn’t seem disappointed to learn that his friend had moved out. Sniffing the air, he’d invited himself in to smoke some weed, and Kurtis was happy to share. They’d gone out to a local bar, where Joaquin had introduced him to a group of tight-knit friends, all o
f whom had embraced Kurtis as if he were a long-lost member of their group, though they’d teased him about being a yuma.

  “What is that?” he’d asked Joaquin.

  “It’s what we call people who are from somewhere else.”

  “Am I the only one who is?”

  “No. In fact . . .” After seeming to weigh what he’d been about to say, he’d shrugged.

  But after hanging out all night and well into the next day, Kurtis had discovered that there were a couple of other Americans in their midst. One, he’d met last night—a fair-haired older dude.

  “Are you coming, Kurtis?” She beckons him to join her in the shack.

  Yeah. He’s coming. Following her over the threshold, he asks how she knows his name, as Joaquin hadn’t introduced them.

  “I heard it through the grapevine, I guess.”

  “Oh, yeah? Hella long way for the grapevine to reach.”

  Her laugh ripples like the water falling from the stone cliff beyond the door, and she runs silky fingertips over his bare arm.

  “What’s your name?” he asks.

  “Gitana.”

  “Gitana. That’s beautiful. What does it mean in English?”

  Those translucent violet eyes study him intently before she answers, as though she’s deciding whether to trust him with a secret password. Leaning so close that her lips brush his ear, she whispers, “It means gypsy.”

  Epilogue

  Wednesday, October 5, 2016

  Washington Heights

  Barnes takes a mighty sip of Jack Daniels before consulting the small spiral notebook and beginning to dial. He’d written down the phone number with paper and pen, long before the electronic era of simply updating contact information on your phone.

  “Hello?” Frank DeStefano’s gravelly growl is familiar and yet not—thinner than it had been the last time they’d spoken, many years ago, and harried.

  “Hey, it’s Barnes.”

  “Barnes! How the hell are you? Everyone’s been calling this morning. Listen, I really appreciate it, but I’ll be fine. Just finished packing, and the car’s already running, so no need to worry about me.”

  “I’m sorry . . . what?”

  A moment of silence. Then, “Carolina coast is being evacuated ahead of the storm. Isn’t that why you called?”