Dead Silence (23 page)

If he lost control, really lost it, Will knew what would happen and that terrified him. Insane. He would go so wild insane, so crazy insane that his brain would never come back to him.

Will took another breath through his nose, released it slowly and began once again to repeat,
Minnesota . . . Minnesota . . . Minnesota
. . .

I
told Tomlinson it was too windy and cold and I was too damn tired to put up with his aimless sawing on a childhood harmonica, it was almost midnight.

“You’re irritating the hell out of me. Aren’t you usually passed out drunk by now?”

“I’ve convinced my liver that daylight saving’s has been outlawed. It’s celebrating. Don’t rock the boat.” He did a quick scale, then slapped the instrument on his palm. “The suit’s the guy I want to irritate. Maybe he’ll freak out and leave us alone.”

The suit wasn’t wearing a suit. He was a man bundled in a hooded ski jacket, waving his arms as he approached, calling, “Hold it right there, please,” as I opened the gate to Shelter Point Stables.

In a distant pasture, I could see an industrial glare of lights and heard the diesel surging of a backhoe. When the man was close enough, I identified myself, then asked, “You’re digging the horse’s grave already?,” letting him know I was in a hurry and had a reason to ask.

I watched the man fix a cordial expression on his face, squinting into headlights because the rental was still running, both doors open. “Who did you say you are again?”

I repeated everything, question included, as I stepped through the gate.

“Alacazam has been buried, that’s right. Probably just finishing up now,” the man said, handing me a card. “It’s been a tough day for all of us. I’m sure you understand.”

I said, “I understand. But I want to have a look at the grave.” I turned toward the car for light.

 

 

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

I shook my head. “It won’t take long.”

“Not tonight, gentlemen. Impossible.”

Tomlinson gave it a try. “We met the trainer earlier, Gardiner—Fred Gardiner. I got the impression he runs the place. Tell him Tom’s here. We’re like friends, sort of. I’m sure it’ll be okay.”

I wasn’t convinced, nor was the attorney.

“One of the finest trainers on the South Fork,” Heffner said. “But Fred doesn’t have”—he paused as a helicopter roared overhead, watched until the chopper’s strobe was a quiet blip—“Fred handles the day-to-day operations. But Mr. Myles instructed me to oversee the ranch until things settle down. We have many millions of dollars invested in our livestock”—he was looking at Tomlinson, interpreting the ponytail, the four-day beard, the pirate earring—“animals have rights, too, you know. A lot of people don’t understand that—”

“Very sensitive creatures,” Tomlinson said. “Brilliant and intuitive.

Discord—the emotional type—can have a cumulative effect. I understand animals.”

The attorney was nodding. “First the tragedy, then a full day of noise, police coming and going. Search dogs smell like wolves to a horse, do you realize that? They know what death smells like. They sense danger, and Mr. Myles agrees. Mr. Myles is afraid things are getting out of control.”

“There’s a fourteen-year-old boy who would agree, if he’s still alive,” Tomlinson replied, his vocal pattern such an uncanny echo of Heffner’s, his sincerity couldn’t be doubted. “Personally, I’d rather be sitting near a hot fire with a cold rum. Give us half an hour, we’ll be out of your hair.”

“To do what?”

“Have another look around. Anything we find might be useful. William, that’s the boy’s name. You’ve seen his picture on the news. Put yourself in his place. Barely a teenager and he’s in hell, man. An innocent child who probably hasn’t stopped crying.”

Heffner said, “A tragedy, I know, awful. But there’s nothing here to find.” “You’re probably right, but what do we have to lose? The kid’s life’s on the line. Forty-five minutes, we don’t even need an escort—”

Heffner appeared to be softening until another chopper buzzed us and unraveled Tomlinson’s spell. “I’m confused. Dr. Ford said he wanted to look at Alacazam’s grave. Why?”

“My partner,” Tomlinson said, “has a thing about details. You know, like going through the alphabet backward. The grave represents
z
. What we really want to do is make a quick sweep of the area, that’s the main reason—”

“The FBI and police spent three hours on the property. Now you want to search the grave?”

“Not search. Just a quick look—”

“To see what? It’s a mound of dirt where a great animal was buried.”

“We’re thinking of the boy—”

“Where Alacazam was buried has nothing to do with the boy. Five minutes ago, I talked to the police. They told me there’s no evidence the boy was on Long Island, let alone this farm. What are you men implying?”

I was watching the distant lights of the backhoe, ignoring Tomlinson’s sharp look. Yes, I had rushed the question, but I wasn’t done. “Why such a rush to bury the horse? I thought you were waiting for an autopsy.”

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 sometimes, 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—”