Randy White - Dead Silence

He lay back in the chair, looking at me. “You know what I’m talking about.

You’re the one they’re gonna arrest, not me. Marion, the kimchee is about to hit the fan. You don’t think I know who killed that mutant?”

Mutant -Tomlinson’s nickname for Bern Heller.

I thought, Uh-oh.

He said, “That’s why I came to get rid of evidence. A murder charge will cause some gossip, no doubt. But Doc Ford taking a fall for drug possession? Your whole image would be screwed. Next stop, Freaksville. Once again, marijuana will get a bum wrap for being a gateway drug.”

The man made a weary sound, getting serious. “You used to claim Tucker Gatrell was the twisted seed in your family. But this thing you’ve got for killing bad guys-whew, Doc, it’s risky karma all around. I’m starting to feel like the loyal sidekick, a Caucasoid Joe Egret. Not as noble, but much hipper of course.”

“Oh, for sure,” I agreed.

He was referring to an Everglades legend, also a friend. Joseph Egret had been devoted to my crazed uncle and had a strong influence on me when I was a kid. Both men were dead now. The state had given special permission to bury Joe in a Calusa Indian mound in the ’Glades. The mounds had been built by contemporaries of the Maya, a tribe that predated the Seminoles by several thousand years.

“Joseph Egret,” Tomlinson added, “that’s exactly who came into my mind as I neatened up after the recent homicide. I’ll stick by you, Doctor, but, man, you’ve got a demon in that noggin of yours that psychotropics just might help. Seriously.”

Never rush to assumptions with Tomlinson. Abso-damn-lutely right. Staying quiet was the way to deal with this.

If I didn’t play it right, instead of looking for the kid I’d end up like him: a prisoner, or worse.

When the black Chrysler skidded into the driveway, Will Chaser gave up pounding on the farmer’s door and sprinted toward the barn. Tried to anyway. The broken rib was like a razor in his chest.

Headlights swept across him. He heard a door open and the Cuban with the freaky horn hollered, “Stop, you little goat turd!” But the smaller man, the one with metallic eyes, was smart. He yelled in pretty good English, “Your parents are worried! We want to help you.”

Already explaining why they were chasing him in case someone in the house was listening.

Adults could say anything. Tell another adult that a kid was a runaway or the cops wanted him for stealing a horse or selling pot, they would believe it. Didn’t matter a goddamn what a kid said, adults listened to adults. Will had lived it.

Fact was, he was screwed either way. If the Cubans didn’t catch him, cops could jail him after contacting Minneapolis. Police there had a couple of reasons to lock him up, particularly if they’d discovered why his ninth-grade English teacher, Mrs. Thinglestadt, had written the award-winning essay that got him into this mess to begin with.

“You’re blackmailing me!” she had complained to Will.

“Laws about buying weed and screwing students got nothing to do with asking a little favor,” he’d replied.

What if the good-looking older woman had squealed?

Will popped the barn-door latch, stepped into the warm odor of hay, leather, horses, and then banged the dead bolt solid. Security lights outside were bright enough for him to know he was in the fanciest stable he’d ever seen. A dozen stalls, polished hardwood everywhere, doors with brass bars and carved name placards for each horse. Bricks on the floor were soft, like rubber. Glass chandeliers were suspended from a beam that ran the length of the barn. Like a whorehouse for purebreds.

Nothing like this in Oklahoma. Where the hell am I?

In a shitpot full of trouble is exactly where he was. In the distance, he heard someone knocking politely on the farmhouse door, while someone else-the buffalo-headed Cuban probably-rattled the dead bolt, trying to get into the barn.

Convinced the doors were locked, the man put his lips to the crack and said, “My little friend, I have frightened you. I have come to apologize, my new little friend.”

Buffalo-head.

Will had never met anyone so goddamn dumb. He raised his voice to be heard. “We’re friends? Are you serious?”

“Yes!”

“I don’t believe you.”

“My head has stopped bleeding. It is nothing. Look for yourself.”

“Then say it. Say you promise.”

“Open this door, you little-” The Cuban caught himself. “Yes, I promise!”

“Okay. If you mean it, I’ll come out. But I have to use the bathroom. Just a couple of minutes, to take a crap. Please.”

“Of course! We were stupid, not providing a place for you to crap. Relax and enjoy, my spirited new friend.”

Truth was, Will did have to crap. And he was also so thirsty, he was shaking. But first…

He looked around. Will knew barns. Didn’t matter how fancy, they all had at least two entrances aside from the sliding doors, and usually a loft door to pulley in hay. He ran to the opposite doors and confirmed they were locked, then sprinted to the manager’s office when he heard a noise coming from there. Got to that door just as Buffalo-head was turning the knob.

“Hey, I’m taking a dump in here! How about some privacy!”

The idiot hesitated just long enough for Will to flip the spring lock, then step back.

Close!

Buffalo-head tried the knob, getting frustrated. “You don’t trust me! You are not the only one who needs to use the toilet. Do you mind?”

“Two minutes, it’s all yours.” Will’s eyes were adjusting to the dark. There was a phone on the manager’s desk. An old phone, with a dial. As he dialed 911, he said to the door, “How is your ear?,” wanting Buffalo-head to keep talking.

“My ear? Perhaps you will find my ear in the toilet with your shit! But… of course, I am joking! I am not angry. I feel almost no pain, I swear. Barely noticeable, thanks to God, because of the pounding in my head. The rock you threw… it did me a great favor!”

Will had dialed but too fast, because he got a recording.

Damn old phone.

He dialed again, listening to Buffalo-head say, “What is an ear? Or a bump on the head? We will laugh about this someday!”

Then he heard the Cuban with metal eyes coming, calling, “You idiot! Don’t you see what the brat is doing?”

The phone was ringing.

“The junction box,” the man yelled, “it’s right there. There… in front of your eyes.”

The phone rang a second time.

There was a thud on the other side of the wall, then the sound of wire and staples ripping, as a woman’s voice said, “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

Will cupped his hands around the phone. “I need help. Two men are trying to kill me. Two Cubans. But I don’t know where I am! My name is William Chaser. I’m from… Oklahoma.” He’d almost said Minnesota but remembered the police.

The big Cuban began ramming his shoulder against the door as Will waited for the woman to respond.

Silence.

“Hello? You hear me? I need help!”

The phone was dead.

Now the older Cuban was telling Buffalo-head, “Find a brick. Knock the lock off. Hurry, before the man gets here. We’ll look like fools!”

Gets here? What man? Someone was coming to help the Cubans.

Will began ransacking drawers, looking for a weapon. Every office, in every barn, on every ranch he’d ever worked, the manager kept a handgun in the top-right drawer for quick access-a revolver if it was an older guy and a semiauto if he was younger. Plus a Winchester rifle in the corner or over the door. A shotgun at least.

Not this ranch.

Eastern shitheels… Who runs this place? The candy-asses should be raising sheep.