Dead Silence
Randy Wayne White
PROLOGUE
On a moonless winter night, after working late in the lab, Marion Ford anchored his boat and swam to a yacht owned by a killer.
Ford wore swim fins, a black wool cap and cargo pants. His glasses were around his neck on fishing line, as usual. He had a tactical light in one pocket, a broken wristwatch in another.
Aboard the forty-three-foot Viking was a man named Bern Heller. Heller had played two years in the NFL, then sold Cadillacs while living a secret life as a serial rapist. He’d murdered a Cuban fishing guide, one of Ford’s friends.
Heller was free after eleven months in Raiford spent lifting weights, talking sports with the brothers, waiting for his idiot attorneys to get him a retrial.
Sometimes, alone in his cell, Bern would fantasize about women, the noise they made when they’d given up. A mewing sound. The way their thighs went limp-total submission. After years on steroids, remembering that sound was the only way it worked, unless Bern had his fingers on a real live girl. Something he planned to do soon.
Ford had spotted Bern that afternoon. Huge man, beer in hand, Bermuda shorts and an orange ankle monitor that looked heavy. Ford had approached, smiling, thinking Bern might take a swing, but hoping he wouldn’t because Ford knew then, looking into the crazy man’s eyes, what he would do.
“The beating I gave you wasn’t enough, I guess. You want more?”
Ford had straightened his glasses, eyes shifting from a marina-foreclosure notice to Heller’s gold Rolex. “I could use the work. It’s been a while.”
“Is that supposed to mean something?”
“Not to you. I was thinking of Javier Castillo.”
“Your dink fisherman pal. If I was guilty, you think they would’ve let me out of Raiford?”
Ford was thinking, He’s stoned, as he said, “Okay. I’ll give you a second chance.”
“I don’t want shit from you. Damn weirdo with your microscopes and dead fish. You gonna stand there talking or take your shot?”
“Maybe later. I’ve got an early flight.” Now Ford was looking at the yacht where Heller lived. “I’ll knock first.”
“ Sure you will. I won’t hold my breath.”
When Ford said, “You’ll try,” Bern blinked.
Ford knocked now, standing outside the yacht’s salon, ready when Heller pushed the door open, wearing shorts, no shirt, a stubnose revolver in his hand.
Ten minutes later, Heller was in the water, trying to say, “Let’s talk about this. Seriously, ” but there was a rag stuffed in his mouth.
He tried to say, “My goddamn elbow’s busted!,” knowing what it felt like because of that game in Green Bay when he got blindsided by one of the Frozen Chosen. But not as cold then as now, with water sloshing in his ears, his wrists tie-wrapped, floating on his back as the weirdo biologist towed him, kicking with fins.
Bern tried to wrestle free but inhaled water up his nose. Tried again, panicking, and felt the ammonia sting of salt water.
He screamed, “Please,” but made only a mewing noise because of the gag. The sound-a helpless-kitten sound-scared him. It was familiar. Thinking about it, Bern stopped struggling. When he remembered, his muscles went slack.
Ford continued swimming from the lights of the marina, kicking harder, using his right arm to pull.
He had a plane to catch.
At 6:45 a.m., Ford was aboard Delta’s direct to Newark, sitting starboard side, first class, reading the Miami Herald. A story about Cuba. Secret documents were surfacing, now that Castro was gone.
Disturbing.
Ford had worked in Cuba. He had also worked in Central America, South America, Asia and Africa.
Ford had told Bern the truth. His skills were rusty.
As the plane banked over the Gulf of Mexico, he folded the Herald and cleaned his glasses. Below, wind glittered on water a mile from shore, where Ford had untied Bern Heller, then pushed him overboard, yelling, “Swim!”
At 3:30 a.m., the lights of Sanibel Island were bright.
By five, Ford had returned to his home and lab on Dinkin’s Bay, secured his boat, was showered and packed. He’d also stowed cash from Heller’s safe and the Rolex in a hidden floor compartment.
Thinking about it now, Heller’s voice- “Don’t leave. I’m begging you!”- Ford felt an unfocused anxiety that startled him. A sinking sadness-a dense, unlighted space beneath his heart.
It passed.
An emotional response? No… a paralimbic reaction. The distinction was interesting-but unimportant.
Ford was working again.
Below, green water became granite as the jetliner ascended.
They’ll think Heller fell overboard, escaping to Mexico… if the cops find him.
They might not.
That orange ankle monitor looked heavy.
HOTEL NACIONAL, HAVANA, CUBA
Farfel told the Venezuelan, “More than a month ago, I warned you. Now it’s too late. The U.S. government has Castro’s files.” He exhaled through his nose, touching a finger to his glasses: Amateurs.
The young Venezuelan, his face lathered, sat reading the Miami Herald, Spanish edition. Farfel, the hotel barber, could see over his shoulder.
SENATE SUBPOENAS CUBAN DOCUMENTS
There was a photo. A good-looking woman, weight of breasts beneath her charcoal blouse. A powerful man with teeth. Cochairs of an intelligence subcommittee, they’d been
bickering about the files for months, mostly with the world political community, but also with the CIA.
“Five weeks ago. What did I tell you?”
The Venezuelan had a partner, an aloof New Yorker. What Farfel had told them was, “You want the files? Bury one of the politicians alive. Bury them with oxygen, a little water. Enough for a couple of days. It’ll work, I read about it in a book. The Americans will give you anything you want.”
They’d thought he was joking.
Now, because Farfel had a razor in his hand, the Venezuelan closed the newspaper. He sat straighter, thinking, He has cut men’s throats. I wouldn’t be the first.
True.
Farfel began stropping the razor fast-a rare display of emotion for the precise little man with silver hair, mustache and glittering silver eyes. They were alone in the shop with Koken chairs, mirrors, combs in blue disinfectant, the smell of powder and cigars, a calendar on the wall showing Havana’s skyline.
“The article means nothing,” the young Venezuelan said. He was worried the barber would be insulted if he stood and wiped lather from his face but was thinking it over as he added, “I have good news.”
“Save your breath. No more excuses.”
“At least listen.”
“Why bother? I should be looking for a way to disappear. They will hunt me the way Jews hunt Nazis. A boat, maybe.”
The Venezuelan stood and found a towel. To hell with etiquette. He gave it a moment for effect, but also to move closer to the door. “Yesterday it was decided,” he said, “the grave will be dug.”
Farfel folded the razor slowly.
“We were going to tell you.”
“The coffin, too?” The barber’s dentures made a clacking snap sound.
“Yes, as you ordered. A wooden box with an oxygen bottle. A container for water-a canteen, I think it is called.”
“Where?”
The Venezuelan said, “Only two people know.” Said it in a way that implied the New Yorker knew but the Venezuelan didn’t. He lobbed the newspaper in the trash, his confidence returning. “There’s something else. We also have the senator’s schedule.”
He was talking about the good-looking woman in the charcoal blouse. Farfel had told them, “Abduct the female. Snap photos with the coffin open, the woman staring up. The FBI will soil their pants, do whatever we want. Old files in exchange for the life of a senator? Force the Americans to react, not act.”
Farfel’s former assistant, Hump, the son of a dead friend, had made a cinematic gesture, framing the scene. “I like photos,” he said in his simple way. “I own a camera.”