Death in Cold Water (27 page)

He could still be ahead, doing a low crawl toward the water. Cubiak started forward. He advanced several feet and then stopped and spun around in time to see a dark figure dash across the driveway. Ross had backtracked and was moving away from them toward the barn. Cubiak broke into a run and caught up with him at the side door.

“Full of surprises, aren't you?” Cubiak grabbed Ross and pressed his arm up behind his back.

Moore materialized out of the gloom, and the sheriff tightened his grip on Ross. “Not a word,” he said as he unlatched the oversized door and shoved him inside.

The barn was a black hole of silence and dust. Mildew thickened the stale air. It was cold, too, a cold that bit into the lungs and squeezed them with a fierce, shackling force.

Cubiak brushed a cobweb from his forehead and hesitated, straining for the slightest sound or movement. Had Ross deliberately led them astray again?

Slowly shapes emerged from the shadows: A small calf pen in the far corner. On the floor, an overturned metal dish from which a barn cat might have lapped warm milk.

In the unnatural stillness, they moved to the wide aisle that bisected the barn. It had probably been decades since the last cows had lumbered down the concrete walkway. Exhaling their warm breath, their massive heads bobbing gently, and their bags swaying heavy with milk, they would turn to one side or the other and slip their necks through the stanchions that would clang shut and hold them in position for milking. It was another family farm overrun by big money or driven to extinction by its owner's incompetence. All that remained now was the memory of a better time, a legacy etched in the faint aroma of the pieces of hay left in the feeding troughs and the bits of straw that had dropped from the last retreating hooves as the cows were led to the auction block or shipped to the slaughterhouse.

Suddenly, they heard a noise—a sharp, quick scratch of tiny claws scrabbling unseen. From the far end of the barn, there was a faint swish like a sudden wind coming up. Ross stiffened, and Cubiak prodded him forward. They moved slowly, step for step, the sheriff with his mouth close to Ross's ear, warning him to remain still. Cubiak was ahead of Moore but he sensed the agent close behind and was relieved by his presence.

When they reached the middle of the barn, Cubiak stopped again. Ahead, along the wall, a stray beam of starlight lit a glass block window, and in the pale smudge that filtered through the gloom, he spied a humped shadow on the far wall.

Cubiak shoved Ross to his knees and hissed at Moore to watch him. The sheriff drew his gun and crept forward. The shadow swayed. It was the size of a calf or a large dog. As Cubiak drew nearer, the shadow assumed the shape of a man. Finally he was close enough to see clearly. The man was skinny and old and kneeling on all fours in a layer of his own filth. His head had been placed between the metal bars of a stanchion and tied in place with a rope. His wrists and ankles were bound with baling twine, his mouth covered with duct tape, and his eyes blindfolded with a white rag. A plastic grocery bag hung directly overhead, and from a hole in the bottom cold water dripped on his head and then ran down his cheeks. The bag was nearly empty but it must have been full at one point, judging from the large pool that spread across the floor.

Cubiak had seen enough photos of Gerald Sneider to know this wasn't him.

“Verne Pickler?” he said.

The captive trembled and pressed into the wall as if trying to disappear or make himself invisible.

Cubiak squatted down beside him. “I'm the sheriff,” he said and rested his hands on the bound man's shoulders to calm him.

Pickler sobbed. The fight left him and he collapsed.

Cubiak undid the blindfold. Then he wrapped an arm around the man's chest to keep him from falling down and loosened the restraints. When the fetters were off, Cubiak opened the stanchion. Then he lifted the scrap of a man to his feet and held him up so they stood face to face.

“Verne Pickler?” he said in a whisper.

Eyes wide, the man nodded and pawed at the tape that sealed his mouth shut.

Cubiak stayed his hand. He knew Pickler couldn't help but scream when the tape came off and he couldn't chance that. The sheriff pointed to the tape, shook his head, and put a finger to his mouth, hoping he was understood. Pickler nodded again.

“Where's Sneider?” the sheriff said.

Pickler looked around, confused, and then raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

Of course, he'd been snatched after Sneider had been taken and was probably blindfolded long before he reached the barn. He wouldn't have seen anything worthwhile.

“It's okay, everything will be fine,” Cubiak assured him. He led Pickler to the side of the barn and eased him down on a bale of straw. “Stay here. Don't move,” he said. Then he slipped back to the center aisle where he'd left Moore.

The agent had kept Ross's arm pinned up alongside his back.

“One down. Now tell me where Sneider is,” Cubiak said, taking over for Moore.

Ross sneered. But Cubiak kept bending his arm until he relented.

“You lead and I'll follow,” the sheriff said as he released his hold and pushed Ross forward.

Ross staggered and fell. Still on all fours, he tried to scramble away. Then suddenly he was up. He ran ahead several feet and then jumped off the center aisle and dodged between two stanchions.

Cubiak was right behind. Searching the barn wall, he saw a recessed doorway off to the side and realized that that was where Ross was heading.

They reached the opening together. Cubiak lunged and grabbed Ross's shoulder.

“Now!” Ross yelled, as the sheriff slammed him into the wall.

Cubiak hurtled into the entrance and slid across the floor of the passage into a small room that was even colder than the barn. He gagged on the sour stench of rotten corn. An arm's length away, the startled figure of Steve Ross huddled against the base of the silo.

“I tried to stop them,” he said.

Cubiak looked around. The concrete blocks that formed the structure were spalling from age and neglect. The row of small access doors that ran up the side of the structure were encased inside a long metal chute. From the ground only three doors were visible, and they were sealed shut.

“How do I get inside?” the sheriff said.

Steve pointed to a series of metal rungs that ran up alongside the doors.

The sheriff knew this was the end of the line. Sneider had to be in the silo.

Cubiak stepped onto the first metal rung and hoisted himself up into the darkness. Climbing as fast as the cold and the slick footrests allowed, he scrabbled up the narrow confine.

Cubiak had climbed past several closed doors when one foot slipped, then the other. He dropped and jerked, and for a moment he dangled in the dark. Just as he was about to lose his grip, he regained his footing.

Stifling his fear of heights, Cubiak forced himself upward. Suddenly, higher up still, a glimmer of light flitted out from the silo. Cubiak paused and stilled his breath. He had no idea how far he'd ascended. Twenty feet? Thirty? Did it matter?

He climbed toward the light and when he reached the opening, he peered in.

Leeland Ross was inside the silo, his back to the door. Standing on a wooden platform, a half circle of plank flooring that had been cleverly attached to the wall, he faced a tall wooden contraption. The apparatus was bolted to the floor and secured by wires that ran to the steel bands lining the inside of the silo wall. Two beams jutted from the top of the frame, and attached to each was a complex system of ropes and pulleys. It took Cubiak a moment to realize that the setup was a jerry-rigged block and tackle. Two sets of ropes ran over and around the pulleys and then dropped straight down into the silo. With absolute certainty, Cubiak knew they led to Gerald Sneider.

Leeland was lowering the ropes into the great abyss.

“Stop,” Cubiak said.

The shout startled Leeland. He spun toward the door. As the sheriff dove through the narrow opening, Leeland grabbed an axe and began hacking at the ropes.

Cubiak tackled him and knocked the axe free.

The sheriff pressed the beefy young man to the floor and tried to hold him down but Leeland broke away. Both men scrambled up on all fours, breathing hard. The axe lay between them. The sheriff glanced at it and then looked up at Leeland, figuring his odds. Leeland was big like his father but younger and stronger and maybe even meaner than his old man.

“You don't have to do this,” Cubiak said.

At the same time, the two lunged for the axe.

Leeland got to it first but then, unable to stop, he slid over the edge of the floor.

There was a loud splash.

The silo was full of water.

“You fucker,” Cubiak said. He grabbed the frayed ropes and strained to pull them up but the weight at the other end was too heavy. Looking down, he followed the ropes toward the black water. They were attached to a metal cage that was almost completely submerged in the deep pool. Inside the cage's dome-shaped webbing, he saw the top of a man's head and the shadowy profile of his face.

Nearby, Leeland thrashed wildly. “I can't swim,” he said as he flayed helplessly.

Cubiak jumped in. After his ordeal with the kittens, he thought he was ready for the impact. But the water in the silo was colder than that in the bay and the shock left him momentarily dazed. He sunk until his feet hit bottom. Then he kicked his way back up and struggled to keep from sinking again. He would not die like this. He couldn't. He tried to think straight. If necessary, he might be able to pull himself out, but could he save the others? Which one to rescue first? Leeland Ross, a man who'd proven himself to be a blight on the community and whose absence many would consider a blessing? Or Gerald Sneider? He had to be the man in the cage. Depending on how long he'd been submerged, he might not even be alive. If he was alive, Cubiak would be a hero—at least to some—until the news of the four boys in the boat became known. And if it was true that Sneider was responsible for the boys' deaths, then Cubiak would be a hypocrite because didn't Sneider, by all accounts, deserve to die in cold water?

The cage was closer. Cubiak spun toward it. Sneider was inside. He was gagged, and the sheriff imagined him tied up the same way the boys in the boat had been bound: Hands behind his back. Ankles shackled together. A rope around his neck to hold him upright, ensuring that he'd remain fully aware that he had no way of escape.

The water lapped at Sneider's jowls. His eyes were wild. He blinked and jerked his torso. A strand of rope snapped.

“Don't move,” Cubiak said. Even if he could hold his breath for long, he wasn't tall or strong enough to stand beneath the cage and push it out of the water and onto the makeshift floor. Treading water, he ran a hand over the frame, searching for a door or latch. The cage was welded shut.

If he got Leeland out, maybe the two of them could pull the cage up. But would the younger Ross help save the man he'd been trying to drown?

Cubiak had been wrong about Leeland's father; would he be wrong about the son as well? The sheriff knew he had to take the chance.

Leeland had managed to kick his way to the far side of the cage. He was hanging on and working his way toward the sheriff one hand over the other.

Cubiak reached out to him. “We need . . . ,” he said as Leeland gripped his arm and hurled forward toward him. With a renewed fury, Leeland latched onto Cubiak's shoulders and shoved him under. The sheriff kicked and punched, fighting to break free, but Leeland would not relent.

Cubiak felt himself weaken. The heavy drag of his wet boots and clothes were pulling him farther down. I am going to die, he thought.

Then suddenly, the punishing weight disappeared and he was being lifted up. Lungs on fire, he broke through the surface, coughing and gulping at the damp air.

“You okay, Chief?”

Cubiak nearly wept. Rowe was in the water with him. His deputy had come to save him. How did you get here? How'd you know? the sheriff wanted to ask, even as he realized that at some point Moore had called for help.

A second pair of hands reached down and grabbed Cubiak by the wrists. The sheriff looked up to find the FBI agent lying face down and hanging over the edge of the platform. As best he could, Cubiak held on to Moore. Between the two of them, Rowe and Moore half-lifted and half-dragged Cubiak from the icy pool. Then they pulled Leeland out as well.

The young man remained bellicose, and Rowe handcuffed him to the pulley mount.

As Cubiak staggered to his feet, the bleating shriek of sirens erupted in the distance. More backup was on the way.

But Sneider was still submerged, trapped in the cage. The ropes holding the cage had frayed further.

“The water's twelve, maybe fifteen, feet deep. We can't let the cage fall,” Cubiak explained. He looked at Rowe. The deputy was six foot five and had a long reach. Just maybe he could stand on the bottom and support the cage from beneath. If only he had his diving equipment, the sheriff thought.

Rowe had shrugged off whatever freezing cold he felt and was already halfway out the silo door.

“My gear's still in the car,” he said.

They were thinking alike.

“Get it,” the sheriff said.

As the deputy dropped down the chute, an army of sirens roared into the yard.

“Reinforcements,” Moore said.

W
ithin minutes they heard footsteps pounding through the deserted barn.

“Up here,” Moore called down the chute.

Cubiak sent Leeland down with the first deputy who came up, and then he sent down the second deputy with orders to bring long, thick ropes or cables, anything strong enough to replace the fraying line.

Moments later, Rowe returned. There was no time to bother suiting up, so he stripped down to his skivvies and strapped on his scuba tanks.

“How much air do you have in there?” Cubiak asked.