Dead Silence (24 page)

“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.

S
aturday 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.

The news could have been worse. I remembered the meeting at the hotel, the agent saying it’s what we should expect 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.

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.

I realized I was smiling. The kid had
grit
. Still battling despite insane odds.

Insane,
the right word.

The boy was in a box, looking up from a pit that might have been freshly dug. Dirt in his hair was suggestive. The angle gave the impression the hole was four or five feet deep. It was only a head-and-shoulders shot but enough to tell the story.

Will’s mouth was duct-taped. A tube ran from the tape to a bottle of water, only partly visible. PCV pipe, attached to wires, had been propped next to the boy’s head, along with a heavily taped battery pack. The kidnappers wanted us to see part of the fan assembly that provided air—their way of saying the boy’s life was now in our hands. If we delivered before deadline, we had a chance.

I glanced at my watch. Twenty-one hours, but the kidnappers had put responsibility for the boy’s life in our hands.

Shrewd, I couldn’t deny.

I cleaned my glasses, then wiped the palm-sized screen. Photo analysis isn’t my field. Presumably, there were experts on the case examining each pixel, assembling data. The Cubans, or whoever took the shot, had anticipated the scrutiny. That’s why the photo was cropped so tight. No trees in the background, no environmental markers except for a section of the dirt pit and dirt in the boy’s hair.

The dirt looked fresh, damp. Maybe sand, or a mix of sand and clay.

I looked at my hands. I’d showered, but there were still specks beneath my nails after my frenzied digging hours earlier. Was the dirt similar? Could be . . .

More obvious was that a patch of the boy’s hair was missing. A ragged rectangle near the left ear, as if someone had grabbed a clump and cut it with a knife. In the first photo sent by the kidnappers, Will’s hair was crow black, shoulder-length but even. Same with recent photos that newscasters had been showing on television.

Why would kidnappers want a sample of the boy’s hair? DNA, my first guess, until I gave it some thought. After my talk with Harrington, I had researched the Cuban Program. Under the guise of medical experiments, interrogators had tortured American POWs using techniques so perverse it disturbed even the Vietnamese jailers. Because the government feared exposure, fifteen of the men, all irreversibly maimed, were moved secretly to a Cuban prison, where the
Malvados
continued their experiments.

The three interrogators weren’t really specialists. They were freaks who enjoyed inflicting pain.
Fiends
—a word with darker connotations in Spanish. If one had cut a chunk of the boy’s hair, it wasn’t to collect DNA. He’d taken it as a trophy . . . or a joke:
Look, I’ve got the Indian kid’s scalp!

I realized I was shaking as I studied the photo, unusual for me. Disconcerting. Emotion is a symptom, the by-product of a reality that’s been skewed by personal interest. I cleared the screen. Decided to check Harrington’s message. Good timing.

It read: “G-R off X-F. 0-sig.”

Translation: “Gloves are off. Zero signature
.
”

I’d had only a few hours’ sleep but suddenly I wasn’t tired. Harrington had either seen the photo of Will or he, too, had reviewed data on the Cuban Program. Something had changed. I was now authorized to deal personally with the Cuban interrogators.

X-F
.
X
referred to the
Executive Order of February 1976,
which Congress had revoked, thus reestablishing assassination as an option.

F
was
Farfel,
the nickname assigned by men he’d tortured.

0-sig
meant just that:
Zero signature,
no trace. Successful assassins leave a body. Harrington’s group, the Negotiators, did not. People disappear. It happens every day.

The euphemisms vary with the times and situations.
Neutralize, terminate, liquidate, eliminate
are the standards used in thriller films but never by anyone I’ve ever worked for or with. Pros prefer substitutes that provide built-in deniability or the hope of a legal out.
X-F
. How can you prosecute a man for writing that?

There are others:
Preemptive Solution. Assignment Targeting
. ATQ—
Assignment Targeting Qualified
. PPI—
Person of Preemptive Interest.
PCC
—Post Conflict Causality.

Eternalize
was Harrington’s favorite because it could be explained away as an attempt to write or say
Internalize.
It was a typo. Or a word that was misheard.

It had been a while since I’d been assigned a target and almost a decade since I’d been authorized to operate within the boundaries of the U.S. I was pleased, but also aware that it could add to the legal nightmare I might one day face. In Fidel Castro’s files, it was possible my name was on a small list of American contractors with a
W
designation.
W,
as in
World License
.