Randy White - Dead Silence

“In D.C., it’s easy to forget there are decent people out there. People who follow the rules, who keep their word, people who care even about the jerks of the earth. It’s the America I’d like to believe in, but I don’t. Did you read Will’s essay?”

Yes, the first two pages, but I shook my head no. The writing was feminine, flowery, tough to stomach because of its smug naivete.

“Mrs. Guttersen is only a foster parent, but the boy has the same values. He’s decent. A good kid.”

I was thinking of another way to interpret God help them. That Will Chaser was dangerous-which was ridiculous, unless Ruth Guttersen had somehow anticipated the wrath of Barbara Hayes-Sorrento.

Barbara was back on the subject of the men who’d attacked her, saying, “I don’t give a damn what you do to them. It’s your business as long as my name’s not involved. Bring the boy home, that’s all I care about.” She turned to the window, as if to say, Kill them-whatever-I don’t want to know.

I nodded slowly. Drained the last of my water, thinking about it. “No one can find out.”

The woman looked at me a moment, then smiled-a savvy, knowing smile. “We’ve got a deal.”

“Did you hear what I said? It never leaves this room.”

“There’s not much I don’t understand.” Her smile became recreational, signaling that she was done with business. “This could be the beginning of an interesting friendship. Maybe even beautiful. But I doubt if I’ll ever be able to call you Frenchy.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Don’t worry, Doc.” She stood and fished something from her pocket. A lighter and a cigarette. No… a joint, long and thin. “People like me-people who know what they want-we spend our lives hiding who we really are. You’re among the few who’ve seen the real me.”

“I never watched the video.” How many times had I told her?

“You had it in your hands, though. Holding is more intimate than seeing. You held me, the way I am when no one is watching. That’s close enough.”

“Give me some credit.”

Barbara said, “I’m trying to,” then flicked the lighter and leaned back, inhaling deeply, her face softening as she inhaled again.

Through a veil of smoke, she told me, “I rarely get the opportunity, but this is how I relax. I become recreationally indecent. When I come out of the bathroom, I don’t expect you to be decent either.”

With her free hand, she was unbuttoning her blouse.

On my flight back to Florida, Barbara Hayes-Sorrento confirmed, via computer, what I had suspected but didn’t want to believe: Re: Documents ›Castro Files› (search incomplete.) No entries as T-I-N-M-A-N. However, several references to T-E-N (space) M-A-N. Identified as U.S. citizen, male, no criminal record, address: (indecipherable). Birthplace: East Hampton, Long Island. First name unknown. Surname: T-O-M-L-I-N-S-O-N.

In my hotel room, Barbara had said, “He’s another one I find oddly suspicious.”

Now I understood.

If I had been on a commercial flight, I would’ve ordered a couple of vodkas for the Virgin Marys I usually drink. But this plane wasn’t carrying liquor. There might have been weapons in the hold-machine pistols, Stinger rocket launchers, no telling what-but no booze, no beer.

The airline wasn’t in the business of recreation and it wasn’t carrying paying passengers… not in a conventional sense.

Harrington had gotten me on a SAT-FG (Security Air Transport, Federal Government) flight. The charter group was used by the State Department and all thirteen federal intelligence agencies. In certain code-oriented circles, SAT was known as Spook Airway Tours.

Depending on the classification, if your name was on the SAT roster, as mine now was, the charter company would get you to your destination, day or night, holidays included. It was an elite shuttle service for most. But if you were ASP-Authorized Security Principal-as I now was, you could check bags that would not be inspected and bring aboard unnamed associates, although prior notice was required.

Snow had changed to sleet when I climbed the boarding ladder at Fort Dix at six a.m. on a black New Jersey morning. Military personnel wore aircraft-carrier earmuffs and mittens, staring into cups of steaming coffee, as the copilot levered the hatch closed.

This civilian Learjet was reason enough to avert the eyes. The ground crew was Air Force personnel. They knew it was a Special Operations Flight, Destinations Classified. Presumably, so did my fellow passengers: a naval officer in dress whites sitting aft and a woman sitting amidships. There were no greetings as I seated myself at the forward bulkhead, no attempts to make conversation, no polite inquiries about personal interests or destinations while the plane deiced.

I spent the flight using my laptop, taking advantage of the plane’s communications perks. I traded instant messages with Barbara, who was exhausted, then contacted a relentless Harrington, using cloaking software that encoded and decoded our correspondence.

No news about the missing teen. Harrington believed that if a second photo wasn’t provided within twenty-four hours of the abduction, the boy was dead. “Unless subject has escaped,” Harrington added, “but improbable for a child that age.”

I wondered.

God help them, Ruth Guttersen had said to the FBI agent. A goat ever kicked your ass? the kid had snapped at me. The teen had fire. Some people are born old, others skip childhood to survive. Foster homes might have made Will Chaser tougher, shrewder. Could have added some protective armor.

Because I hoped it was true, I wanted to speak with the Guttersens myself. Maybe a former teacher or two. Barbara had provided me with phone numbers. She’d also provided a satellite cellular phone, a contact list and temporary credentials, all with an efficiency unexpected of a woman who was wine-tempered and very stoned. This performance, I decided, was not her debut.

Somewhere over the Carolinas, I received the senator’s e-mail about Tomlinson. A surprise not just because of the content but because I thought she was finally asleep.

I didn’t trouble her with a reply. Instead, I checked the time-7:10 a.m.-and decided to e-mail the psychic philosopher myself. Normally, e-mail is not the quickest way to contact Tomlinson. He has purged his sailboat of all electronics he considers worldly and intrusive, keeping only necessities: a VHF radio, a turntable and a complicated stereo system.

Every morning, though, he dinghied to the marina around seven, if he wasn’t too hungover. He checked messages, bought a paper, then pedaled to Baileys General Store for a scone.

The timing was about right.

Tomlinson and I have a convoluted history that goes way, way back. Years ago, before either of us had chosen Sanibel Island as home, a group of so-called political revolutionaries sent a letter bomb to a U.S. naval base. One of the men killed was a friend.

Tomlinson was a member of the group but had nothing to do with the bombing, although it was years before I was convinced. A government agency believed otherwise and declared that all members of his group were a clear and present danger to national security. Agents were sent to track them.

As Harrington told me at the time, “We’re not the CIA. We can operate inside the reservation.”

I have never admitted that I was sent after Tomlinson, although he suspects. The man has an uncanny knack for perceptual reasoning that he insists is clairvoyance. I credit his gift for observing nuances and minutiae that most people miss, myself included.

In that way, he is different. It’s impossible to say whether the ability is due to enlightenment, as he claims, or because his neural pathways have been oversensitized by years of chemical abuse.