Dead Silence

by Randy Wayne White

  Heffner was done. “Our company vet finished hours ago—not that it’s any of your business.” He took a breath to calm himself. “Look, guys, some freak shot and killed a great horse. Our horse. Now he’s buried. I hope you find the boy. I hope he hasn’t been hurt. But the kidnapping has nothing to do with our horse. End of story. That’s all I have to say.” He looked at the gate. “If you don’t mind . . .”

  I had my cell phone out. “I mind,” I said as I called Barbara.

  Tomlinson put the harmonica to his lips. Because he was right about it irritating the suit, I didn’t mind so much.

  There were two fresh graves, not one.

  “Four days ago, the trainer called. Said they had to put a gelding down,” the backhoe driver told me. “Called me again this afternoon for another job. We do most of the work for the horse people around here.”

  Several times, I had circled the graves. I had a flashlight. The backhoe, although not running, was still lit up. I was looking at two mounds of dirt on frozen pasture ten yards apart. A single length of hollow steel pipe had been driven into each grave near the center.

  “Why the pipe?”

  “If snow drifts, they don’t want their staff driving over a grave when it’s fresh,” the driver replied.

  “How many horses have been buried out here?” With my flashlight, I could see a series of geometrical rises that continued beyond the lighted perimeter toward the pasture boundary.

  As the driver shrugged, Heffner said, “The Myles family has owned this property for generations. They kept horses even before Mr. Myles founded Shelter Point. Horses die, Dr. Ford. It’s the way life works.”

  The driver appeared nervous as I continued asking questions. I wondered if it was because of the two uniformed cops who were escorting us. The men weren’t happy, standing outside in the cold, waiting for us to do a search they considered pointless. Heffner had added to it, giving them These men are crazy looks, the attorney of a wealthy resident bonding with local police.

  “Dr. Ford and Mr. Thomas aren’t official law enforcement,” he had told the cops earlier as we hiked across the pasture. I had stopped because I noticed headlights at Fred Gardiner’s house. The Range Rover was leaving, I realized, horse trailer in tow. Where were they taking a horse on a cold January night?

  When I asked the cops to use their radios and request that the vehicles be searched again, that was Heffner’s reaction. We had no authority, Heffner reminded the cops, and their livestock had suffered enough. “They represent the interests of a politician, a woman from D.C.,” Heffner said. “We’re doing this as a courtesy.”

  When the attorney added, “They’re not even local, they’re from Florida,” one of the cops said, “Hey, did you guys see the story about the football player that drowned? They’re saying he was murdered.”

  The night was cold, the mood chilly.

  Aware there was no winning them over, Tomlinson was doing his obnoxious best to punish the cops, possibly for past sins of policemen he had encountered over the years. Trying to drive them away by driving us all crazy with his harmonica.

  “When it’s this cold, mister, metal could stick to your tongue,” one of the cops warned him. “Every winter, we get calls.”

  When I said, “Don’t you wish it would happen?,” the men thought I was trying to ingratiate myself. I was tempted to give the name of a New York mounted cop as a reference.

  Each grave was nine feet deep, seven feet wide, corners squared nice and neat, the backhoe driver explained.

  “Laws are pretty strict. You’ve got to bury horses on high ground. If water starts coming in when I’m digging, I gotta stop and report it. And I would. Right away I’d call, because that’s what the law says.”

  For the benefit of the police, Heffner put in, “It’s never happened at Shelter Point. We’re very careful not to contaminate the water table.”

  “Not only that,” the driver said to me, “if water floods the grave, even after it’s covered, we might have to start all over again. It’s ’cause of the pressure. I’ve never seen it happen,” he added, talking faster, “but I’ve heard of it Even this time of year. On the South Fork, we don’t get a solid freeze, so, you know, it’s something you gotta think about.”

  The man was increasingly nervous, something the cops had picked up on. I could read their faces.

  Horse or human, fresh graves are taboo. I had avoided it but now walked across Cazzio’s grave to the pipe near the center of the mound. It was three-inch pipe, the sort used for fencing or playground equipment. I used my flashlight to look into the pipe, as Heffner said, “Now what?”

  I didn’t reply.

  “What are you doing? Hey, Ford! I’ve been too damn patient. These men aren’t stupid and neither am I. You’re insane if you’re implying—”

  One of the cops interrupted, “I don’t see how he’s hurting anything. The sooner these men are done, Mr. Heffner, the sooner we can go home. Make sense?”

  The backhoe driver was lighting a cigarette, I noted.

  My little ASP Triad flashlight is military-grade aluminum. I tapped the pipe. Waited. Tapped again, then tried to move the pipe with my hand. “How deep is this thing buried? I can’t budge it.”

  “The pipe’s an eight-footer. It’s what they told me to use.”

  “Always or just tonight?”

  The driver said, “Mister, I do what they tell me. It’s what we always use.” He drew on his cigarette and began to pace.

  “If you don’t get much of a freeze, you can’t get that much snow.” I addressed the cops. “What’s the D.O.T. use for snow markers? Fiberglass poles, something like that? This is galvanized pipe, three-inch tubing. Why use hollow pipe as a marker?”

  I tapped on the pipe again. Cupped my hands and put my mouth to the opening. Hoped Heffner couldn’t hear me as I hissed into the pipe, “William? Will?”

  Heffner was saying, “That does it! What you’re doing constitutes slander,” but stopped when one of the cops got a radio call. As he stepped away, I went to the second grave and waved for Tomlinson to follow.

  “What do you think?” I used the flashlight on the pipe. Ping-ping-ping . Cupped my hand around the opening and called the boy’s name again. We both leaned to listen—nothing. I sniffed the opening. Air warmer, musky.

  “The cops know what you’re thinking, Doc. Heffner’s about to lose it. I’m all for you, man, but . . . the vibes just aren’t here for me.”

  “I don’t care about vibes. Think about the boy.”

  He was silent for a moment. “Okay, I will. Step back a second. Metal’s an excellent conductor.”

  I watched Tomlinson touch his hand to the pipe, then close his eyes. He made a humming noise: Ommmmmm.

  I waited.

  He opened his eyes. “Blank screen. It’s just not happening, man. Sorry.”

  I was unconvinced.

  He said, “Hey, amigo, you’re the logical one. Think it through. Kidnappers wouldn’t bury the kid close to home, then tell the cops where to find him. If my brother’s involved, he’s too smart. Anyone living in the Hamptons is too smart.”

  I said, “Kidnappers lie. Once they get what they want, they don’t have to tell us where he’s buried. It’s too much trouble keeping a hostage alive. Most are killed in the first twenty-four hours.”

  Tomlinson sighed and put his hands to the pipe again. Kept his eyes closed for several seconds. “A shape . . . bones. A scar. Neutral something. Oh . . . a gelding. I forgot.” He stood, shaking his head. “Nothing human coming through. Not a spark. Even dead, I don’t think the boy’s down there.”

  I said, “Are you ever wrong?”

  When Tomlinson realized I wasn’t joking, he gave me an odd look. “You’re admitting that I’m sometimes right? I wish I had it on tape. That kid really does have his hooks in you.”

  I was watching Heffner talking with the cops. “Just tell me the odds. They’re about to pull the plug.”

  “I miss signals s
ometimes, sure. Especially when I try too hard. Or if someone’s on a whole different frequency. Some people, it’s like they’ve got kryptonite shields. You, for instance. Lately, though, I’ve been zone-solid.”

  I ignored Heffner, who was calling to me, saying, “Enough! We’re done for the night,” as Tomlinson followed me to Cazzio’s grave. I nodded to the pipe. “Try again.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “It can’t hurt. You’ve got the credentials. Some people in law enforcement believe in this stuff. What you say carries weight.”

  Tomlinson whispered, “If you want me to lie, just say the word.”

  I gave him a look: Hurry up.

  “Okay, but you first. I’m serious, man. You and that boy are on some tribal wavelength. That’s what I think’s going on here. A frequency not on my dial. So give it a shot—”

  “Damn it, Tomlinson—”

  “It can’t hurt: your words.”

  I didn’t want to tell him that I had already tried. Back on the road, holding the rock, maybe I had felt something but knew it was my imagination.

  He sighed. “Okay, okay.” Then went through the ceremony, hands on metal, eyes closed. After a few seconds, he said in a monotone, “Flesh . . . residual spirit. Power, very intense, relentless. An odor . . . too. Weird.” He was silent. “A smell of . . . pears? Copper, like when it’s been cut. Copper mixed with pears, that’s the odor.” He sounded puzzled but then let it go. “Bone . . . bone splinters, a fracture. Some metal. Could be the bullets.” He opened his eyes. “Nothing human.”

  “That’s all?”

  “You tell me.”

  Tomlinson pointed at the pipe as one of the cops called to us, “Guys . . . gentlemen? I just got a call from the station. We’re leaving.”

  I touched a hand to the galvanized metal—Cold—as Tomlinson whispered, “Stick with it.”

  The cop raised his voice. “Dr. Ford? I’m asking you nice, but only once. Tests are back from the lab. Blood on the wrench wasn’t the missing boy’s blood. Not a match. It’s definite.”

  I was thinking about Harrington, wondering if there was a chance Farfel’s and Hump’s blood types were in the records.

  Tomlinson tried to buy some time, saying, “What about the DNA? They were going to compare hair samples.”

  Heffner was getting madder. “Nothing matches. There is absolutely no evidence the missing kid was on this property. In fact, there’s no evidence”—the attorney stopped to say something to the cop, who nodded—“they don’t even think the boy was in the area. There was a possible sighting somewhere in Indiana. Another in Jersey. Can’t you get it through your heads? The boy wasn’t here!”

  I still had my hand on the pipe, but not because I hoped for some telepathic cry for help. My willingness to believe, even temporarily, signaled a simple fact: If Will Chaser had been buried alive here, he would soon be dead. Or already was. Right or wrong, I had to press the issue. There was enough linkage to risk it. Every second mattered.

  The cops were walking toward us, one of them telling me, “At the station, they’re questioning some teenagers right now. There’s been a series of break-ins, drug-related. Probably a couple of screwed-up kids broke into the barn, then shot the horse.”

  The other cop added, “Dr. Ford, one way or the other you are leaving—now.”

  Irrational, but my feet wouldn’t move. “Nothing I have heard,” I told them, “explains why three-inch pipes were sunk into these graves. Sorry, until I get an answer I’m going to insist that—”

  The backhoe operator surprised us all, calling, “Okay, okay! I lied! But it’s not my fault, I swear!”

  Everyone stopped.

  The man sounded exhausted as he rushed to say, “It’s what they told me to do. So I did it, okay? That’s the truth. But it was their idea. I’ve got a family to feed!”

  I turned and began ramming the pipe with my shoulder, hoping to widen the size of the boy’s airway, as Heffner snapped, “Shut your mouth, you idiot! Not another word!”

  When he realized how damning it sounded, his tone became apologetic as he said to the police, “This has nothing to do with that missing boy. The man’s a drunk, you know his record. Believe me, I can explain.”

  Then he did explain, saying the three-inch tubing had been inserted to relieve water pressure “in the unlikely event” that water seeped into the graves.

  The backhoe driver wouldn’t have fared well in an interrogation. His eagerness to confess made him far more convincing.

  “There’s almost always water when I dig out here,” he told us, sounding panicked. “I admit it. I knew I was breaking the law but kept digging these damn holes anyway. One day, sooner or later, someone had to figure it out. I don’t know what kinda doctor this guy is, but he was the first to notice what worried me from the start, ’cause it’s so damn obvious. Snow’s not the reason we use those pipes. We use pipe so the water has a place to go. So pressure doesn’t build up.”

  I found out later that the backhoe operator had two DUIs on his record. He feared one more arrest, even for breaking a county ordinance, would put him in jail.

  The police were convinced. One of the cops had trouble hiding a smile. I, too, was convinced, but for a different reason. Archibald Heffner, a polished attorney, wouldn’t have yelled at a backhoe driver because he feared a small fine. Not in front of police anyway.

  Heffner was scared. Why did he fear a more careful search?

  The cops threatened to arrest me when I refused to leave.

  I said, “Then arrest me.” I wasn’t moving until I had spoken with Barbara and with the FBI.

  “I’m getting a court order to open these graves,” I told the cops. “I’m probably wrong, but what if I’m right? Why not play it safe? Scramble an emergency crew. What if it was your kid?”

  I told them we need bottled oxygen to aerate the pipes. And at least one GPR on wheels. GPR—Ground Penetrating Radar. If local Search and Rescue didn’t have a unit, I suggested the nearest university with an archaeology department might.

  The cops told me that even though procedure required that Tomlinson and I be handcuffed, they would wait to hear from their duty officer.

  They were reasonable men. Most cops are. Tomlinson is not. As they approached, he sat down fast, arms folded, and advised me, “When the pigs try to lift you, let your body go limp. They hate that. But watch your nuts.”

  My first sit-in and my last.

  Passive resistance is effective if you have unlimited time.

  We didn’t.

  It was early Saturday morning, and Barbara’s staff spent an hour working contacts before they’d assembled enough New York muscle to roust a judge willing to sign a search warrant. It took me slightly longer to locate a GPR machine and get a technician on-scene.

  Heffner battled us every step.

  Somehow, though, I’d won over the cops. They had an EMS vehicle beside the graves within fifteen minutes. They pretended not to notice when we started opening a hole around the pipe, digging with our hands.

  At 12:35 p.m. we got the go-ahead to use the backhoe but were specifically limited to the two freshest graves. Same with the little GPR, which was mounted on wheels like a lawn mower.

  By then, though, I suspected there was no reason to dig. Heffner didn’t realize it but he had convinced me of that, too.

  20

  Saturday morning, 10:30 a.m., I was outside the Nelson A. Myles family mansion, deciding the best way to break into the place, when I received text messages from Barbara, then Harrington. A third text arrived seconds later. It was from James Montbard.

  Across the road from the Myles estate was a wooded ridge. Bare oaks and dune grass. I sat with my back against one of the trees and opened Barbara’s message.

  New photo: William in coffin before burial. Air runs out 8 a.m. tomorrow. Horrible. Do something!

  The news could have been worse. I remembered the meeting at the hotel, the agent saying it’s what we should e
xpect if the kidnappers weren’t bluffing. A “trophy shot,” he had called it. Their way of proving they meant what they said. Will Chaser might still be alive if the shot had been taken that morning.

  I downloaded the attached photo and watched the Indian kid’s face appear as an incremental scroll of pixels cascading down my screen. Messaging was the only way I could be contacted. My phone was muted, and I had been ignoring calls for an hour. The explanation was simple: I was tired of apologizing.

  The search of the Tomlinson estate had produced nothing but embarrassment for a certain U.S. senator. Same with partially exhuming two dead horses while a sleepy GPR technician, two attorneys, an FBI agent and a half dozen cops and EMTs watched. What we found—or didn’t find—in the graves doused whatever interest the FBI had in stretching the connection.

  Magazines inside the Tomlinson mansion suggested someone was following the Castro story? Big deal.

  Barbara was not happy. She had strong-armed her New York congressional colleagues to provide everything I wanted for what? Nothing. Just like Archibald Heffner had said, there was no evidence that young Will Chaser had been in the area. Call in the cavalry twice in one night, there’d better be a good reason.

  Now Barbara was ready to pull the plug on Marion D. Ford—our professional relationship anyway, which included the entire relationship I was beginning to believe. I could hear it in her tone and read it between the lines of her text message.

  Do something!

  I was trying.

  On my phone, the boy’s face was being assembled line by line. I noticed there was dirt in his hair. Then I watched Will’s eyes appear, staring into the camera. Dark eyes but bright, as if sparks provided backlight. His expression was complex, a mix of fear and something else. Anger? No. More intense. Rage—that was it. Rage focused on a precise cynosure of loathing. It was laser-like, aimed straight at the photographer. It pierced the lens.