Randy White: Dead Silence

In the frozen pond, Choirboy hadn’t mentioned Castro Socialists. Judging from the FBI agent’s physical response-he looked at the floor, nose wrinkled as if sniffing-he didn’t believe it either. Captain Denzler did.

“It explains why they were after you, Senator Hayes-Sorrento. Your committee has authority over the materials they’re demanding-it’s been on the news.”

Denzler touched a remote; the computer screen changed. “Here’s what they want. They refer to them as files. Files C/J-116 through C/Sa-120. We’ve been unable to confirm that these files exist.” The woman gave it a second. “Do they exist, Senator?”

Barbara was sitting between her chief of staff and her attorney. Both were taking notes. I watched the woman nod. “They’re not just files. Our people discovered a… a place, where the former dictator’s personal papers were being warehoused. Some personal possessions, too.”

Some personal possessions? The woman was good.

She said, “But because the information has been”-Barbara glanced at her attorney, who was shaking her head-“because the information is classified, my staff will investigate the steps necessary to arrange a private deposition. I want to do everything I can to help this child.”

The FBI agent said, “You can confirm, though, these designations match materials that have been cataloged?”

“Not cataloged-not yet. Grouped under very general terms. Subgrouped, really. C for Castro, then subgrouped, A for apple, B for baseball. Like that. The number refers to the carton. C/J-116, for instance, means Castro Files, letter j, carton 116. You might find something related to Japan inside. Or jewelry. I’m not saying there is jewelry, understand. It’s just an example.”

Denzler asked, “What about this one. C/Sa? Carton 120.”

Becoming impatient, Barbara replied, “As I said, everything’s alphabetized. I assume fewer items begin with the letter j, so there’s only one carton. More items are in subgroup S, so there are two or three cartons. Sometimes dates were also added. A sort of sub-subgrouping. The work had to be done”-Barbara hesitated-“in a limited amount of time.”

“How many people know about the labeling system?”

“Too many, obviously.”

The policewoman started to ask another question but decided to let it go. “Then it fits. A pro-Castro organization demanding Fidel Castro’s files. Certain items, I’m saying, that’s what they’re demanding.”

Barbara was looking at the screen, way ahead of Denzler, maybe thinking what I had already concluded: The kidnappers had insider information. They knew how the items had been organized and at least an idea of what the cartons contained.

After a long silence, the FBI agent said, “That’s very helpful, Senator Hayes-Sorrento, thank you,” then looked at Denzler, who got the hint, and stepped back so he could talk.

The FBI agent said, “There was a kidnapping that has interesting similarities. A college student named Barbara Mackle was abducted and buried in a specially constructed box. She was targeted because her father was a wealthy Florida developer. Her abductor was an escaped convict, Gary Krist. Krist spent a month at the Miami Public Library searching for the perfect victim for what he considered the perfect crime…”

I tuned out the agent, less interested. Harrington had made the connection with the Mackle case. As an intelligence consultant, he would’ve had no trouble piping information to the FBI.

I was thinking about the third question I had asked Choirboy when we were in the water: Who is your contact in America? His organization had known the senator’s schedule. There had to be an informer.

Choirboy gave me a name. A code name, really. If I hadn’t been freezing, I might have experienced my first emotional chill. The name was linked to my own personal history. If I believed in evil, the name might have once defined it.

“Tenth Man,” Choirboy told me, although it was difficult to hear because of his chattering teeth and the congealing fluid in my inner ears. Salt water and blood both crystallize at thirty degrees Fahrenheit.

Tenth Man made no sense. An alternative translation had come to me later while under a hot shower at the station house.

Tenth Man…? Ten Man…?

No, Choirboy had said Tinman.

Maybe the same person, maybe not. I had my suspicions, nothing confirmed.

Tomlinson, my friend and neighbor on Sanibel Island, sometimes worked as a roadie for the classic rock band America. His favorite song: “Tinman.” It didn’t prove a connection, but the song wasn’t his only linkage. Like me, he’d traveled the world. Like me, his past life was a gray region, an old map with unexplored territories. Because returning to Florida was now a priority-there was equipment I needed-I would also have my chance to discuss the significance.

I was eager to talk with Tomlinson.

My eyes moved around the room, seeing James Montbard at the back of it. He’d lost interest, too. Was it because he’d already heard the story from Harrington?

Barbara listened while going through a stack of faxes. Her face, seen in profile, showed the patrician nose, the strong chin. The starched collar of her blouse framed a glossy sweep of hair, and my eye moved naturally downward, the curvature of buttons incongruous with the detached expression on her face.

I pictured Barbara, not the Mackle girl, when the agent said, “…if it’s not a hoax, we expect a second photo before they bury him. A photo of the box with the boy inside. Showing off. Like a trophy. Probably taken just before they close the lid.”

By the time I had forced the image out of my head, the agent was saying, “Krist told Ms. Mackle the batteries would last a week if she was careful, but the fan would quit in two days if she wasted power. Understandably, she became hysterical when Krist sealed the box and she heard dirt being shoveled onto the lid.

“He told her, ‘Shut up and stop acting like a baby.’ That’s an exact quote from the report.” The agent’s expression read See the kind of people we’re dealing with?

He continued, “Two important points: If they bury Mr. Chaser, there’s a chance we will get him back alive. Ms. Mackle was found-almost accidentally, by the way-eighty-six hours later, weak and dehydrated but still alive. Almost four full days. It proves a person can endure what these people are threatening to do. The key is giving the kidnappers what they want. That’s hard for the FBI to say, but there it is.

“The second point isn’t pleasant. The note mentions an air cylinder and a water tube. Nothing else. Ms. Mackle’s abductor was a megalomaniac, a loser by every definition of the word, but he at least exhibited some empathy. He provided a little food, a few personal items and enough room for Ms. Mackle to bend her legs and arms.”

The agent was referring to the tube that would be taped to Will Chaser’s mouth. Either the coffin was too cramped to lift a canteen or the kidnappers planned to bury Will with his hands bound. Why else make him drink through a tube?

When the agent described the tube and how Will’s hands were taped, Barbara’s attorney stood, made a coughing sound, then rushed from the room. Two staffers followed, maybe to help but more likely not.

“He’s better off dead,” I heard one of them say.

When Hump leaned over the rental car and pressed the button, the trunk shot open as if on springs. The Chrysler emblem whacked the man hard on the chin, and his knees buckled as he backpedaled.

Hump let himself fall, expecting to land in weeds and trash, like in the ditches in Havana. But Farfel had stopped at the edge of a ravine on an off-ramp where there was no traffic, only the window lights of a distant home-a ranch or farmhouse-the world starry-skied and silent at ten p.m.