Randy White - Dead Silence
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- Название:Dead Silence
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Will knew he did stupid things when he got mad. Not something to admit to that government shrink, the one who’d told the parole officer, “A grand mal seizure or anger-management problems.” A lesson for him, telling the truth instead of lying about how it felt, the chemical sensation when he got seriously pissed off.
This was after a couple of tests which he also should have lied about, although he had lied quite a bit, faking some of the answers, but not enough.
“The boy’s not abnormal, but he lacks certain normal qualities,” the shrink had told the parole officer and a social worker, talking as if Will wasn’t in the room. “He demonstrates behavior associated with emotional scarring, typical of abandoned children. Rage mixed with antisocial behavior. But he has highly developed survival skills. He’s an expert manipulator. Again, all typical, considering his background.”
William wasn’t abnormal, but that didn’t mean he was normal either, the woman shrink had added-which was lying flattery, something adults often tried. But then it got interesting:
“It’s the way the boy’s brain translates outside stimuli,” the woman had said, before asking, “William? Isn’t it true that certain things come into your mind as colors or smells? Numbers have colors, you said. Days of the week, too. Friday is yellow, you told me. Thursday is purple, the number ten is silver. Fear is bluish gray. Fear has an odor, a mix of copper and pears, you said.” The shrink was reading from notes, finally including him in the conversation.
Everyone wasn’t that way? That was a surprise to Will.
“Will has a condition-a gift perhaps-that’s been well documented. It’s called synesthesia. Synesthesia is not a paranormal power. It’s a heightened awareness. Just like some people have exceptional eyesight or hearing. Very rare.
“It’s been linked with unusual artistic abilities. Sexuality, too: It’s possible that synesthetes radiate pheromones that are abnormally potent-that’s anecdotal data but fascinating, isn’t it?” The shrink had smiled but avoided Will’s eyes, oddly uncomfortable. “Intense rage is also associated,” she’d said. “There’s a lot we don’t understand about synesthesia.
“I’ve contacted the psychology department at the university. We want to pay Will to participate in a research program designed just for him. Wouldn’t that be wonderful, Will? We could work together, the two of us! And no more living in stinky barns, doing manual labor.”
Will had smiled but was thinking, No way, Jose.
It wasn’t that easy getting out of it, though, because the shrink was determined. Didn’t matter that the cops had just nailed him for stealing Blue Jacket.
A week later, though, when the principal surprised the school librarian seducing Will in the stacks, it was farewell Oklahoma and hello Land of a Thousand Lakes. The timing hadn’t been easy because the principal seldom left his office and the librarian was fickle.
Minnesota was okay, mostly because of Old Man Guttersen. Guttersen got a kick out of Will’s stories, when he shut up long enough to listen. Will could tell the old man anything, including the truth. Selling weed, gambling, diddling teachers didn’t bother him a bit. Same with stealing: as long as it was in a different neighborhood and former U.S. military personnel weren’t targeted. Even if Will hadn’t been stealing for a good reason-saving to buy Blue Jacket-it would’ve been just fine with the old man.
“We’re both sneaky, lying, shitheel frauds,” Guttersen had confided, “and we’re screwed if the world finds out.”
Luckiest thing that had ever happened to Will, being assigned a foster granddad who understood.
“The word unique,” his English teacher, Mrs. Thinglestadt, had told him, “is commonly misused. It is incorrect to say ‘very unique’ or ‘extremely unique’ because unique is unique. One of a kind.”
She had corrected him as they were showering-Will had made the error while complimenting Mrs. Thinglestadt’s breasts-and after they’d celebrated the good news about winning the essay contest and his trip to New York.
Only Old Man Guttersen knew how he’d won. First time in Will’s life he didn’t have to pretend. Will Chaser could be himself when the two of them were together, listening to Garage Logic or sharing a beer while watching cowboy westerns.
Usually, Bull called him “Pony,” but sometimes “Rookie,” like the young guy on Garage Logic, depending on whatever fit the old man’s mood. Maybe Guttersen would call him “Crazy Horse Chaser” after this. .. if Will ever made it home to tell.
Unique. The word for his relationship with the old man.
Bull… Goddamn it, Bull, I wish you were here right now.
Especially now. Because a familiar sound stirred the darkness: the Chrysler pulling up so close to the barn that for a moment Will worried the Cubans would use the car to crash on through. But the car stopped, its headlights filtering through windows, under the double doors, filling the barn with dusty, diffused light.
Next to Will, on a hook meant for tack, he had hung the handle from a broken rake. Taped to the handle was a syringe with a four-inch needle-taped to the plunger actually-so it looked sort of like a spear point.
Pony Chaser, on his horse with a spear, ready to charge.
Will liked the Indian feel of that-unusual ’cause anyone who grows up on the Rez knows the whole Indian act is bullshit. Rubber arrows, drunken Skins wearing feathers and blankets dancing for tourists, the only thing real being a mesquite fire and the sad, hungover weariness of shuffling feet.
The feeling Will experienced, though, was real. A solitary sensation that was brave-hearted, aloof and alone. It was a soaring feeling, unafraid despite the inevitable.
Warrior. For the first time in Will’s life, the word had substance, dense as granite yet weightless enough to whistle like a faraway wind in his ears.
Warrior. Yeah…
A ceremony, that’s what the moment deserved. So Will took a scalpel, grabbed a handful of his own hair and lopped it off. He tied a length of hair to the spear, sort of like a scalp, then knotted the rest to Cazzio’s candy-ass braids.
Looks nice…
Yeah, it did, the way their shadows combined on the stall’s gray wall. Shadow of the stallion’s body capped with Will’s. The spear angled vertically from his hip, its shadow silhouetted as black as a charcoal drawing. An image came into the boy’s brain: a painting sold at the souvenir shop on the Rez, End of the Trail.
Watching his own shadow, Will touched his chin to his chest, imitating what he remembered, and there it was, the painting’s ghost- Ouch! -Will’s broken rib stabbed his lungs and he lay forward again.
Then he heard another familiar sound: a crowbar prying wood… then barn doors sliding open on their tracks.
The doors were open wide now, and the Chrysler’s headlights projected giant shadows. Buffalo-head came first, hunched over as if ready to flee, moving carefully into the uncertain space of the barn.
A second shadow appeared: Metal-eyes, who stopped and leaned against the fender of the car.
Will put his mouth close to the horse’s ear. “It’s time.”
He nudged the blanket back enough to free his right arm.
Cazzio snorted, skin fluttering. He whinnied and tested his legs, steel shoes on the floor, an animal that was born for business. He sensed the Cubans approaching, a subtle change of air.
Will felt it, too: a color sensation, tan turning red.
Easy. You’ll know.
In the medicine cooler, there had been a lot to choose from once Will saw there wasn’t a weapon worth a damn in it aside from veterinarian syringes and some scalpels. Also a pack of big-gauge needles and several vials of tranquilizers, a few with familiar names.
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