Dead Silence

by Randy Wayne White

  America, with its wealth, was no longer a dream. It had become a nightmare.

  That will change soon. Be patient, be precise. Listen to the intellect, not the emotions.

  Not easy to do when in the company of a moron. Hump, even though born from the seed of his late friend Angel Yanquez, was just another experiment. And that experiment had gone terribly wrong, as even Angel had conceded on his deathbed.

  Farfel had now fulfilled his promise to Yanquez, so never again after this. All Farfel wanted to do was return safely to Cuba, which, unfortunately, required that he trust Hump to drive the boat while he navigated.

  It’s only two hundred miles. Two hundred miles is nothing! The Gulf of Mexico is only a few kilometers from here.

  Here was an island, a place identified as Tamarindo on the GPS in the boat that Myles had made available to them. Farfel had wrestled with the idea of simply killing the boy, using a razor on him, or an open flame perhaps, which might have provided interesting notes. But their run of bad luck worried the Cuban.

  Instead of imagining expensive restaurants and sleeping with the daughters of his hosts, he was now envisioning an American courtroom with former POWs who would never fully appreciate the kindness Farfel had demonstrated by not killing them.

  Fulfilling the obligations of the ransom note, the Cuban had decided, was the wisest course, although now, looking at his bloody hand, he was having doubts about that, too.

  Farfel crossed the beach, hearing the sound of sand being shoveled. The sand made a water-saturated thump as it landed on the boy’s coffin. Finally, Hump was following orders and filling the hole.

  Near the wooden dock, bayside, was a cabin hidden by palms and casuarina pines. Wind in the casuarinas imitated the wash of waves on a distant beach, as Farfel approached a path outlined with whelk shells. The shells were bone white on this breezy, blue tropical day.

  It hadn’t been easy to break into the cabin. It was made of concrete block, and Myles’s construction people had installed a difficult lock system using steel rebar on every door and window. Hump, though, was so freakishly strong that he’d had no trouble ripping off one of the window shutters.

  That by-product of Angel Valencia Yanquez’s experiment, his spawn’s extraordinary strength, had been the only part of the experiment that had gone right.

  Farfel entered the cabin, taking comfort in the coolness of the open room. He washed his damaged hand in a bucket and soaked it in Betadine, which he found on a shelf. Then he lay down to rest on one of the bunks.

  Farfel was exhausted. His ankle hurt, his hand throbbed and he had been suffering back spasms ever since he’d flinched, dodging the syringe the boy had thrown, and then had to scramble to avoid being crushed by the horse.

  Shooting that elephant of a horse was the highlight of this miserable trip.

  As Farfel lay resting, his eyes moved around the room. He’d taken a careful look earlier, but the decorations were still beyond his understanding. He was a scientist yet hadn’t settled on an explanation for the weird symbols on the walls, on the mantelpiece—everywhere he looked.

  There were several prints of an all-seeing eye encased in a pyramid, as on the back of an American dollar bill. There was a pirate flag in one corner, a flag with a large yellow Y in another.

  Pirate banners, showing death’s-heads of various designs, marked the entrance to the little kitchen area, where there was a propane stove and oil lanterns. There were skull-and-crossbones symbols on the mantelpiece and a row of Indian artifacts: flint arrowheads, a withered quiver of arrows, a flint knife, an unstrung bow and more than a dozen figurines—cast in plaster, carved from stone—of a dour, flat-faced Indian.

  Nelson Myles may be wealthy, but he has bourgeois taste. Or . . . perhaps this is a clubhouse used by children.

  Because there was a canoe, two kayaks and a basketball hoop outside, that seemed plausible until Farfel considered several paddles, not for boats but the sort college boys used to spank with. The paddles were covered with more cryptic symbols. There was also a row of beer mugs engraved with such things as MAGOG, SUPERMAN, GOG.

  American children don’t use paddles or drink beer.

  In a glass-sided box, near the fireplace, were bones, which most people couldn’t identify but Farfel could. He’d seen them earlier so didn’t bother to look. There were human femurs, a partial set of human ribs, carpal remnants and finger segments from a human hand. There were also two ancient-looking skulls.

  A section of the parietal bone was missing from one of the skulls. Teeth were missing from the lower mandibles of both.

  Myles is a serial killer—that explains it. The murdered girl was his first, and he enjoyed it. Only a ghoul would use bones as decorations.

  Or a research scientist, Farfel reminded himself.

  The Cuban lay back on the cot and closed his eyes. They would be in the boat soon headed for Havana. He hoped to cross the two hundred miles in less than twelve hours but feared it might take longer.

  No matter. The deadline was less than twenty-four hours away. By tomorrow morning, they would surely be close enough to watch the American plane drop the crates of personal possessions that had been stolen from the Bearded One.

  Farfel wanted to personally confirm that all records of the Cuban Program had been destroyed—his future depended on it. It also depended on the millions Castro was rumored to have in Spanish treasure.

  Once the ransom had been delivered, he would then turn his attention to finding the American who had lied to them, used them, who had demanded half of the money Nelson Myles had sent and who now had abandoned them to rot in an American prison by not sending a boat as he had promised.

  Tenth Man, his code name, although in English it was Tinman.

  More than anything else, Farfel wanted to confront Tinman. He would use his intellect to find the poorly coiffured American, Hump’s strength to subdue him and then . . .

  “The job is done, Dr. Navárro.” Hump was standing at the open door. His face was grimy, but he was smiling. “Everything you said, I have done. Would you like to inspect?”

  Farfel said, “Get on the boat, we’re leaving.” But as he crossed the room, he stopped and peered into the glass-sided case next to the fireplace. Something was missing.

  “Did you take anything from here? I told you not to steal anything, unless it was valuable.”

  The huge man shook his head quickly. “Nothing. I swear. Look at the grave, how smooth I made it.” He smiled, a simpleton who was lying but genuinely proud of his work.

  Fifteen minutes later, Hump was standing at the helm of the cabin cruiser, throttle open, and still smiling when he passed to the right of a green navigational marker instead of passing to the left.

  The boat was doing twenty-five knots when it hit an oyster bar, the impact so violent that Farfel was catapulted over the railing into water that was less than a foot deep. He had been standing on the forward deck, holding a navigational chart in one hand and waving wildly with the other, yelling to Hump, “Stop . . . stop . . . stop!”

  Farfel recovered his glasses and the chart before wading back to the boat. His back was spasming again, his forearms were bloodied by the oysters, but he was still coherent enough to pause and consider the directional flow of the water. The water was moving southwest, toward the Gulf of Mexico.

  Next, Farfel looked at the cabin cruiser. It sat atop the oyster bar like a trophy, even its keel showing.

  It would be hours, he realized, before they could leave. They would have to wait until the tide turned and was nearly high again. Eight hours at least.

  “Stay away from me,” Farfel said softly when Hump vaulted off the boat to help. “Stay away.”

  27

  Someone double-crossed the Cuban interrogator. They didn’t send a boat. Who?

  I was thinking about it as I sat behind the wheel of Nelson Myles’s Range Rover, the smell of leather and wood mixing with the unmistakable odor of the man’s soiled slacks. Myles an
d I were only two blocks from the entrance to Falcon Landing. I could see a guard standing beneath a lamppost on a street column-lined with palms.

  I asked Myles, “Do your security people carry weapons?”

  “If they do, I doubt if they’re loaded,” he said. “They won’t bother us, don’t worry. Park by the harbor, if you want.” Once again, he was trying to manipulate me into reentering the grounds.

  I was tempted. I wanted to check the marina, and see if the Cubans had taken the cabin cruiser. If the boat was accurately described, they probably hadn’t made it to Key West yet, not without nosing into the Ten Thousand Islands to refuel. By deadline time, eight tomorrow morning, it was possible they could be in international waters. But, just as likely, they had run aground while leaving Sarasota Bay: Venice Inlet and Snake Island were tricky.

  I imagined the Cubans, frustrated and pissed off, sitting high and dry on some bar. Would that be good for the boy or bad?

  Could be good, I decided. If they were trapped in U.S. waters, they might keep Will alive as a bargaining chip.

  I slowed, watching the guard watch us, then I turned west toward the beach, where I’d parked the rental car. “Now where are we going?” Myles asked.

  I said, “To a quiet place. You wanted me to ask questions? It’s time.”

  “I changed my mind. There’s nothing I can add. Stop here, let me out, you can have the car. I won’t call police, I promise.”

  “Call them. They can listen to your confession.”

  “I didn’t confess to anything. What I remember is you sticking a gun in my face and . . . and, well, why review the obvious? I leave that sort of business to my attorneys. Or . . . I’ll ask my fraternity brother . . . the federal judge.” He put his hand on the door. “Let me out.”

  I stepped on the gas. “Questions first. Who else knew you murdered the girl?”

  “I didn’t murder her,” he said patiently. “It was an accident.”

  I gave it a moment before saying, “Who knew, besides Norvin Tomlinson . . . and Billy Sofvia?”

  It was the first I’d mentioned their names, and the impact made Myles sit up straighter. He tried to recover, saying, “The details are fuzzy, I keep telling you. I might have told someone—I was still drunk and high most of the next day. You can’t expect me to remember every little thing. It was a long time ago.”

  The details were always fuzzy when Myles got to this part of the story. He was lying again.

  “How’s your memory when it comes to last night? Who shot your prize horse? Cazzio . . . Alacazam . . . whatever you called him. I heard his stud fee was a couple hundred thousand. No matter how rich you are, that still has to hurt.”

  The man’s surprise was palpable. It filled the car with an expanding, pressurized silence, until he said, “Who are you?”

  I said, “You haven’t told me everything, Nels. But you will. You left someone out of your story. He’s been helping the Cubans, and you know it.”

  “You’ve been lying to me.”

  “And I feel just terrible about it. Trust is so important in a relationship. Answer the question.”

  “Bullshit. Why should I?”

  I said, “You really want me to give you a reason? Someone had to be at your farm to meet the Cubans. Fred Gardiner was drunk and you stayed at the landing strip. That’s what you said. Who helped you?”

  “Fred? How do you know my manager’s name? You tricked me! I’m not saying another word.”

  I kept talking. “I think the person who helped you last night helped you bury Annie Sylvester fifteen years ago. Or at least provided you with some kind of alibi.”

  “Just like Fred. What did I tell you?” Myles said. “Why bother with questions if you think you have all the answers?”

  I said, “I have a few. Billy Sofvia worked for your family in those days, so it makes sense he helped dig the grave. But he’s dead. Died a POW.”

  The man tried to hide his surprise but was still sitting up straight, listening.

  I continued, “Billy knew you killed the girl. So you either had him fired or somehow steered him into the military. You wanted him as far from the Hamptons as possible. That means at least two people knew you killed Annie.”

  His expression said Huh?

  “Your parents fired the guy, so one of them either suspected or was sure of it.”

  “They’re dead. Leave them out of this.”

  “Then there’s at least one person still alive who knows—not counting me.”

  He raised his voice. “Who have you been talking to?”

  “Aside from the boys down at the bowling alley, you mean? Skull and Bones doesn’t come up that often.”

  He turned to face me. “What does my fraternity have to do with . . . How do you know about—” Myles stopped himself because he was flustered, getting mad as he tried to put it together. “Look,” he said, “enough of your games. What’s going on here? One minute, you pretend to be a professional killer. Now you’re talking about things that no one can . . . that no one is—”

  “Supposed to know?” I offered. “Maybe it would be easier if you answered in code. Eight for yes, seven for no. Did I get it right . . . Magog?”

  “Magog? My God!” He took a long, slow breath. “That’s enough. There’s no possible way for you to know that name unless you spoke to—”

  I said, “There’s always a way. I know a lot about you, Myles. Almost every question I ask, I already know the answer. Lie to me and I’ll take you back to that road.”

  “You sonuvabitch,” he said. “You have been setting me up!”

  “Eight for yes,” I replied. “Now it’s your turn. Besides Billy Sofvia, who knew you killed the girl? Norvin Tomlinson? Or maybe you snuck off to your island hideaway and confessed to all of your fraternity pals.”

  His voice dropped a notch. “Who told you about the island? There can’t be more than two dozen people who know about Tamarindo. Tell me the man’s name and I’ll tell you the truth, deal?”

  I’d been referring to Deer Island off Maine, not a tropical island. Tamarinds are an equatorial fruit. But I covered my surprise by saying, “How do you know it was a man? It could have been one of your fraternity sisters. Women Bonesmen: Ever think you’d see the day?”

  Myles said, “You’re wrong about that. There are no women, not in our fraternity. Ever,” his tone so bitter that I realized I had stumbled on something important. I let him talk.

  He said, “Who sent you? What are you, an attorney? A private investigator? You’re not really a hit man. This whole thing has been an act.” His voice was getting louder. “Goddamn it, pull over!”

  On the road ahead, just before the turnoff to the beach, was a maintenance shed and parking area screened from the road by trees. I’d seen it while jogging to the Falcon Landing entrance. I swung into the parking area and switched off the lights, listening to Myles rant, “Did one of those bitches send you?”

  I replied, “Your fraternity sisters would object to the generalization.”

  “Those self-righteous, manipulative bitches, that’s who’s behind this. Are they trying to get even because of my lawsuit? Or because someone took what they think belonged to them?”

  I said, “You robbed your own fraternity house?”

  “You can’t steal what you already own . . . And I’m not saying another word until you answer me. And don’t try your tough-guy lines again. I won’t fall for it. You’re not a killer. You’re a goddamn actor!”

  When I put the Range Rover in park, he reached for the keys. I pushed his arm away. When he tried it again, I laced my arm around his elbow, applied enough pressure to slam him back into his seat. I brought out the little Seecamp. When he turned to protest, I jammed the gun barrel under his chin and lifted. I continued lifting until the man was half standing, head against the car’s roof. He had to grab the sun visor for balance.

  I said, “Somehow, Magog, you got the wrong impression about me.”

  He said, �
��You’re hurting me,” but was thinking about it, reassessing, not yet convinced.

  When he made an effort to pull away, I wedged a thumb under his jaw and my two middle fingers into the socket beneath his left eye and shook him. My grip was as solid as if his skull were a bowling ball. Ironic. He couldn’t pry my fingers loose but kept trying until I banged the back of his head against the window.

  “Know what I found out tonight?” I whispered. “I’m no actor. You need to pay attention, Mr. Myles.” Slowly, slowly, I removed my hand from his face, adding, “I’ve killed better men than you.”

  Myles made the reflexive, mewing sound again as he inhaled. Maybe it was the way I said it or maybe because it was true, but the man became as submissive as he’d been on the dirt road.

  “I got carried away,” he said. “I’m . . . sorry. But prying into my personal business, especially fraternity business, I lose my temper.”

  “A club for college boys. Do fraternities have a rule against growing up?”

  “You could never understand. Even new members don’t understand. It’s not really a fraternity. It’s a noble society, hundreds of years old, left to a very few of us in trust. I’ve had a lot of shitty things happen in my life. But being a Bonesman is the one good thing no one can ever take away from me.”

  “Must have been tough when the court ruled in favor of admitting women.”

  “That doesn’t mean it happened,” Myles replied, the softness going out of him.

  “Well . . . I don’t give a damn about Skull and Bones. That’s not why I’m here,” I told him. “I’m after the boy.” I was holding the cell phone. “This is how it works. You have five minutes. I ask a question, you answer. Hesitate or lie to me, I slam your head into the window.” I touched the record icon and placed the phone on the dash. “Talk.”

  I wanted to know about Tamarindo. How far was it? How private? Had he told the Cubans about the place?