Dead Silence df-16

by Randy Wayne White

  “I’ve worked with the hospital staff before,” Sudderram told us, “so the doctor let me stick around as long as I didn’t ask any questions. Will said he didn’t mind. He seemed fairly cheerful, considering what he’d been through.

  “Will told the staff he couldn’t remember much after his coffin started flooding. He said he didn’t feel scared, just sort of sleepy and dreamy. Maybe he blacked out -his words.”

  A doctor told Sudderram that a blackout was consistent with the results of an EEG test, which measures brain cell activity, and an MRI scan, which doctors said revealed strokelike indicators visible in the boy’s brain tissue.

  For a short time, apparently, Will had gone without oxygen. Damage appeared to be minimal, however.

  “Next thing the boy says he remembers was crawling through sand toward a cabin. He says he also remembers being pissed off at the Cubans. But not crazy mad-he made that point over and over.”

  Sudderram smiled at me as I secured the skiff. “It seemed very important to the kid that we believed he was only sort-of mad. You know, that it was no big deal listening to his kidnappers stab the limo driver and then bury him alive.”

  Tomlinson was standing with his back to us, staring at the remains of the cabin, seeing the charred shutters and broken glass, smoke still tunneling up from the collapsed roof.

  “Sort of mad, huh? I’d hate to see what happens when the kid get seriously pissed off.”

  I was picturing Farfel’s lead-glazed eyes, the razor edge of the hunting arrow creating a pyramid of skin beneath his Adam’s apple, blood-circled like a third eye.

  I asked, “The boy admitted starting the fire?”

  Sudderram said, “Too early to talk about that. But if he did, who could blame him?”

  We walked single file along a path lined with whelk shells through a heated space of uplands and cactus to the beach. There was the coffin, lid closed, lying next to the remnants of a hole, and a knotted pile of clothing-Will’s filthy jeans and western shirt.

  The hole was filled with sand that had collapsed, loosened by the last high tide. The coffin had been made from an industrial crate and modified with a plywood lid. As the female agent took pictures, the other agent used a measuring tape.

  A three-inch hole had been augured through the plywood lid, then patched over with a chunk of what looked like pine flooring. The hole was cleanly bored. The patch was a sloppy job but nailed tight.

  A second hole had been cut into the side of the coffin. It angled vertically at about twenty degrees. Another sloppy job. As Sudderram made notes, I took notes of my own.

  Tomlinson, I noticed, was wandering around the area, a familiar Om -dazed look on his face. I watched him walk into the remains of the cabin.

  Sudderram stopped writing long enough to ask me, “Does he always behave this way at a crime scene?”

  I replied, “No. Sometimes he acts sort of weird. I’m warning you in advance.”

  We both laughed too loud, a symptom of exhaustion.

  The agents and I discussed the coffin. Sudderram guessed that the Cubans had planned to bury the boy on Long Island in the horse pasture, but attention from the police had changed their plans.

  “The hole in the lid would fit the sort of galvanized pipe they used at the stable when they buried an animal,” he said.

  Because they’d had to improvise, the Cubans-Hump, who was now in jail-had sealed the first hole with a chunk of flooring, then used a screwdriver and hammer to create a second breathing hole. A six-foot length of PVC tubing lay nearby.

  It explained how Will had stayed alive while buried, but it didn’t explain how the boy had escaped. Judging from the way the tide had sucked sand into the hole, it was possible the rising water had also lifted the box free.

  “The box looks solid enough,” Sudderram offered. “Bury a small boat in sand, the same thing would happen. Water exerts pressure as it rises, the hull displaces water, which increases buoyancy. It was a fairly shallow hole-Will told doctors only about four feet deep. A foot or two of lift could have displaced enough sand for the kid to kick the lid open.”

  I asked, “He doesn’t remember at all?”

  “That’s what he says and I believe him. Said he had dreams-a spacey and free sort of feeling that could describe a sensation similar to floating, couldn’t it?”

  There was one problem, I reminded him. “You were on Long Island. You remember the backhoe driver saying he used pipe to vent water pressure. If water flooded the graves, the excess would have exited up the piping instead of lifting what was buried.”

  When agents opened the coffin’s lid, though, we saw that Sudderram and I were both right. Sort of.

  Inside the box was a skull. The skull was volcanic gray and had the look of centuries. A section of the parietal bone was missing as well as several teeth.

  “Jesus Christ, the kid never mentioned this,” Sudderram said, kneeling, then stepping back to get out of the way of the camera.

  I noticed that Tomlinson was hurrying toward us as if we had waved him over. We hadn’t. On the drive to Falcon Landing, he’d awakened in time for me to tell him a little of what had happened, but I hadn’t mentioned Myles implying that he’d stolen fraternity artifacts.

  Even so, I expected Tomlinson to take one look inside the coffin and make the association instantly. Which he did. But it wasn’t just because the skull was there. Nor was it because we discovered several other bones-ribs and segments of finger bones-when agents removed a sodden blanket.

  What convinced Tomlinson was the way the skull was positioned. It was wedged into a corner of the box, between two braces, with the back of the skull angled perfectly so that it covered the airhole.

  The skull had served as an effective stopper. If it hadn’t been there, the box would have partially flooded but wouldn’t have floated.

  The agents were wearing rubber gloves. I wasn’t, so I kept my hands at my sides as I leaned close to inspect. The skull couldn’t possibly have formed a watertight seal, but it might have sealed the vent enough to allow the box to drift upward, freeing the boy.

  “Geronimo saved Will,” Tomlinson insisted as we trailered my boat back to Sanibel. “I can think of only one other explanation.”

  “Let’s share that information telepathically, too,” I suggested. “It worked so well on the way here.” Traffic was heavy on I-75, lots of Ohio and Michigan license plates and oversized Winnebagos. I was too tired not to concentrate on my driving.

  “Be as sarcastic as you want, I’m going to tell you anyway. William J. Chaser…” Tomlinson repeated the name twice before asking, “Do you know what the J stands for?”

  I could see he was disappointed when I answered, “Yes. Middle name, Joseph. So what? If you’re going biblical on me, keep it brief. And please don’t rehash the whole Judas thing, okay?”

  “Doc, have you ever taken a close look at Will’s face?” Tomlinson asked. “A really close look, I mean. Cheekbones and eyes especially.”

  “Once,” I told him, “and that was enough. The kid still blames me for ordering him back into the limo. He didn’t say it, but I can tell. The way he glared at me, I think he wants to put an arrow through me, too.”

  Tomlinson thought that was hilarious. “Birds of a feather!” he kept repeating until we got back to Dinkin’s Bay and he sobered up enough to say he wanted to place the boy’s photo next to an old photo Tomlinson had of a man we’d both known and admired. A good man I’d been close to as a boy. His name was Joseph Egret.

  Tomlinson said, “I think there’s something there. Will and Joseph. They might be related. Seriously.”

  I groaned, trying to tune the man out.

  “Doc,” he argued, “a lot of Seminoles were sent to reservations in Oklahoma. And you’ve heard the rumors about how many children Joe fathered. The women loved him! I know, I know, he wasn’t a Seminole, but still…”

  “Tomlinson,” I said, shaking my head, “I don’t know what planet you’re from, but it
’s short one lunatic. Save it until we get back to the lab. I need to open a beer first, okay?”

  37

  On the last day of January, a Saturday, I flew to Pittsburgh and attended Detective Shelly Palmer’s funeral, accompanied by Sir James Montbard.

  Montbard had spent recent days in the Caribbean, judging from his tan, presumably stationed somewhere near Cuba waiting to nail whoever showed up to collect the ransom.

  “By coincidence,” he told me, “I have business in the Northeast. Happy to tag along.”

  It was no coincidence. Montbard was still working on some kind of assignment related to the kidnapping-that was my guess. I wasn’t certain who was behind the kidnapping, and Hooker might have useful information. As the Brit had said, socializing is a key part of our craft. That’s why I suggested we travel together.

  Shelly Palmer was buried east of Pittsburgh in Allegheny Cemetery, a park of rolling hills and trees overlooking the Allegheny River. A hundred friends, uniformed cops and family members were there, along with several dozen film crews.

  During the service, I noticed a man who was too broad-shouldered for the suit he wore. Instead of joining the others around the woman’s grave, he watched alone from the perimeter.

  I nudged Hooker Montbard, then drifted close enough to confirm that the man wore a wedding ring. For an instant, he and I locked eyes. He stared until I looked away, unsettled by the absurd notion that the man might perceive the truth of my guilt, a truth his former lover had carried to her grave.

  I decided to speak to him anyway. I believed that Shelly might want the man to know how it was the night she died. That he had been strong in her thoughts. But the man froze me with a warning look, then ambled away.

  Cops.

  The next day, Sunday, February first, Roxanne Sofvia behaved similarly at Nelson Myles’s funeral, or so she told me on the phone. Stood off by herself, faithful to the code of the unfaithful, maintaining a fictional distance from the man she had hoped to marry, still playing her role as mistress even though their affair had irrevocably ended.

  I chose not to attend the funeral. I could have.

  The night before, Hooker and I had flown from Pittsburgh International to JFK. He went to the Explorers Club, while I took a bus to the Hamptons. I hadn’t returned to a New York winter to socialize, but that’s not why I didn’t attend the funeral.

  Loyalty can be demonstrated in a garden variety of ways. I admired Nelson Myles for the courage he’d summoned during his last hour, but I felt a more compelling loyalty to a family which had suffered fifteen years of his silence.

  Ironic, as Virgil Sylvester had observed, that his daughter’s body was found at Shelter Point Stables on the same day the man who had buried her was being lowered into his grave.

  It was ironic beyond the fisherman’s knowledge, I now believed.

  Had Nelson Myles decided the worth of Annie Sylvester’s life was equal to his own, he, too, might have benefited, not only from the kindness he would have provided but because the girl’s remains would have finally received forensic attention.

  It was one of the reasons I had returned to the Hamptons. While confessing to the girl’s murder, Myles had unknowingly caused me to doubt that either of us knew the truth.

  The details of the girl’s death were gruesome to contemplate, but details solve murder cases. Myles had told me he was certain he had used a seven iron. I had double-checked the golf bag in Norvin Tomlinson’s room and was equally certain that it was the nine iron that a worried Mrs. Tomlinson had replaced.

  Around seven p.m., after speaking to Virgil Sylvester and talking with Agent Sudderram several times, I checked into a hotel not far from the Tomlinson estate.

  I showered and dressed for dinner, then telephoned NYPD veteran Marvin Esterline. I had his cell number. He was off duty but sounded pleased to hear from me.

  I told Esterline that the body of Annie Sylvester had been found and then explained about the golf-club discrepancy. I couldn’t tell him how I knew, but I gave names and addresses. He agreed to keep me posted on the results of the autopsy.

  “If you played golf, you’d know that those two clubs are angled very differently,” Esterline assured me. “Depending on the wounds, it might be as obvious as the difference between a. 38 slug and a. 45. The medical examiner will know.”

  Next, I telephoned Harrington. He didn’t share my interest in the murder case, but he sounded interested in the possible killer after I’d briefed him.

  “A smart guy, Ivy League background, who was recruited by one of our intelligence branches. A guy who’s spent most of his life outside the country, but also an insider who has something to hide-that works for me,” Harrington responded, but there was something oddly dismissive about his tone.

  I said, “Are you agreeing just to be agreeable?”

  “You were describing the sort of person capable of planning something this big,” he replied. “I’m agreeing because I think you’re right. I think our guy recruited fringe-group types, already motivated, because he needed feet on the ground and didn’t want those feet to be his own. Smart, in other words. He let Rene Navarro plan and handle the really dirty parts-who better? I think the buried-alive deal was pure Farfel.

  “For Farfel and his other foot soldiers, the payoff was a chance to erase the past and also get rich. As in very rich-close to five hundred million in gems and gold and collectibles, if our people had made the drop.”

  I asked Harrington, “What was his payoff? The man we’re still looking for what? Money?”

  Harrington hesitated long enough that I knew he was holding something back. He told me, “I’ll call you on a different network,” and he did seconds later.

  “Okay, Doc, here it is,” Harrington continued. “We’re talking about a former black-ops agent. Worked overseas somewhere, using his real-world job as a cover. Exactly as you described. His payoff was a chance to destroy evidence that he was a traitor.”

  I said, “You’ve stopped being hypothetical. What am I missing here?”

  “You haven’t missed a thing. The man who organized the kidnapping was a traitor. Back in the sixties, he was studying leaves or rocks or something in South America and went south in more ways than one. He tipped off Castro before the Bay of Pigs invasion. That was his payoff: a chance to destroy the proof.”

  I was thinking, Leaves and rocks?, as Harrington told me, “A payoff the guy didn’t expect was a visit from a mutual friend of ours. I just got confirmation. I couldn’t cut you in, Doc-you know how things work.”

  I was confused and becoming frustrated. “Look, I’m in the area. Long Island. Tell me where you are and we’ll talk.”

  “No need,” Harrington replied. “Besides, you have a dinner date, don’t you? With the mutual friend mentioned. Maybe he’ll give you the details.”

  I felt a weird cerebral jolt. I was meeting Hooker Montbard at the American Hotel in Sag Harbor in an hour. I hadn’t seen Hooker since he’d left JFK for the Explorers Club the previous night… or, at least, told me he was going to his club.

  “Doc?” Harrington said. “You there?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want you to relax, take a few days off. In terms of the business we discussed, you did another competent job.”

  Competent: wild praise from Harrington. And it was true that Navarro was dead.

  I said slowly, “You’re not asking me to drop my interest in finding out who-”

  “We already know. You need to let it go, because what you’re pushing for is a waste of energy. I need you back, rested up, in good shape.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” I said. “I won’t drop it. We are talking about Tinman?”

  I didn’t have to explain the code name to Harrington.

  “You’ve got the right person. If he murdered that girl, I suspect it was to cover up for his idiot son-even the worst of us occasionally do noble things. But the police will never charge him because the guy we’re talking about has taken a l
ong, long trip. Dr. Hank Tomlinson has…”

  Harrington allowed his silence to provide the word: disappeared.

  EPILOGUE

  In the middle of February, I had a total of two full weeks to myself and I spent them doing whatever I damned well pleased whenever I damned well pleased.

  I hung out at the marina. Traded stories with the fishing guides, bought lunch for Javier Castillo’s widow and daughters, and got tipsy one night with my sisterly cousin, Ransom Gatrell. We ended up aboard a water-soaked old Chris Craft named Tiger Lily.

  Tiger Lily ’s owners, two respectable businesswomen, decided that at least once a year the only rule should be there are no rules, so one thing led to another, as it always does when the destination is known in advance.

  I exercised twice a day, running the beach, then swimming to the NO WAKE buoy off the West Wind Inn or jogging through Ding Darling Sanctuary and doing laps at the public pool.

  Pull-ups were done on the bar beneath my lab. Descending sets, beginning at twenty, then nineteen, eighteen and on down to one. If my Sunday voice signaled there was absolutely no way in hell to do one more, I reprimanded the traitor by starting with one pull-up and working my way back up to at least five.

  Sunday voice: It’s the voice we all hear that tells us to quit, take it easy, wait until tomorrow, why bother?, what’s the use?

  To discredit the voice, all I had to do was imagine Farfel coming toward me with the power drill… or spend five minutes on the phone with Otto Guttersen.

  Otto hadn’t had much free time either. For three days after Will Chaser’s escape, the man was the darling of daytime television, although he refused to discuss what he had endured as a captive after Mazar-Sharif, and he also insisted on wearing an absurd white ten-gallon hat.

  Because Guttersen was funny and honest, and a relentless advocate of his teenage ward-“Toughest little cuss you ever met, I bleep thee not”-network producers tolerated the man’s quirks.