Randy White - Dead Silence

I said, “I wouldn’t want you to think I make a habit of doing what you’ve just implied. I don’t believe in revenge.”

Tomlinson was listening, his eyes serious, but he was still keeping it light. “Cool, I can relate. Why even the score when the objective is to win?”

I said, “You took it the wrong way. For me to do something so.. . so extreme, I would give it a whole lot of thought. Benefits would have to outweigh risks. I would need a credible motive-intellectually credible, not some emotional rationalization. Pyromania is to arson what homicide is to getting rid of a predator like Bern Heller.”

Tomlinson said, “You’re not a part-timer looking for a hobby, in other words.”

I held out my hand for the Rolex. “I’m not a murderer.”

“Is a murderer different than a killer?”

I wasn’t going to answer that. I shook my head.

Tomlinson said, “Well, amigo, it doesn’t matter, because I’m no saint.” I watched him bounce the watch in the air and catch it. “If it had been me knocking at Heller’s door that night, a woman would have been raped and killed. Because it wasn’t me-because it was someone else, a man with a whole different set of moral convictions-she’s alive. Maybe that’s the thin line between murder and killing. Cowardice, in some form. Proactive or passive, it’s still the same as murder. It’s a crime.”

I said, “I don’t understand what you’re getting at and I’m not sure I want to.”

“For the first time in my life,” Tomlinson replied, “I’m struggling with the concept of nonviolence as a form of violence.”

I said, “A facilitator anyway.”

“No, violence, the real deal. The woman would have died if I’d been there that night. Just because I wasn’t at the cabin door doesn’t make it any less valid. I would’ve chosen passive resistance-maybe out of conviction, but also maybe from being a coward. Either way, Heller would have brutalized her and she would now be dead.”

The man was serious.

He was still bouncing the Rolex in his hand as I said, “Your fingerprints on Heller’s watch won’t ease your guilt or help my case. What worries me is, you’ll have a few shots of rum at some bar after smoking a joint and want to talk philosophy with someone who-”

“A doobie mixed with demon rum is God’s own truth serum,” he interrupted. “I get talkative. Hey, I admit it. Which is why”-he bounced the watch twice before lobbing it to me-“I’ve decided we should disappear for a few days. I’m thinking Pensacola. It’s Key West without the cruise ships or bondage crowd. An easy four-day sail.” He lifted his antique bag. “Boat’s ready, I’m packed. Want to come along as crew?”

I said, “I love Pensacola, but it’s got to be New York. I’m looking for the boy they kidnapped.” Because of my special clearance, a friend could travel with me on the SAT flight, so I added, “Interested?”

Tomlinson stood, folded his chair and stacked the pie pans. “New York-perfect,” he said, unaware I had a plane waiting. “Screw the Intracoastal, we’ll sail offshore. It’ll be spring before we raise the Statue of Liberty, but that’s okay. I don’t own any winter clothes.”

Lying on the horse waiting for Buffalo-head to pull the stall door wider, Will heard the man clearly as he turned to Metal-eyes and said, “But the Devil Child is insane. A monster!”

Will was thinking, Not a monster, candy-ass, a warrior, his voice loud inside his own head, as he threw back the blanket and used his boots to signal the stallion, but Cazzio was already moving toward the stall door, the horse’s collective musculature vibrating through the boy’s body like shock waves from an explosion.

Even Blue Jacket couldn’t jump a six-foot fence, but this horse could, judging by his trophies, so Will was prepared for the rocket acceleration, leaning forward, staying low, as he heard Buffalo-head scream, “Mother of God!,” as he dove for safety when Cazzio lunged.

The next moment, though, Will was on the floor. His shoulder had clipped something-the doorframe?-but he wasn’t hurt. Or was he?

Yeah… his shoulder was throbbing, that’s all. But his legs were still solid. Will was getting up… getting up faster than Buffalo-head, who was also on the floor, as the stallion whined and reared, his eyes wild in the blinding headlights of the automobile parked outside, almost blocking the open barn doors.

“Here he is! I have captured the Devil Child!,” Buffalo-head was yelling to Metal-eyes, still nervous but excited, keeping his eyes fixed on Will. “Bring the gun, quick!”

Then the big Cuban’s expression changed. There was something he noticed about Will, that he was gimped over, that it hurt when he moved. As the older Cuban came into the barn, Buffalo-head said to him, “Wait, I don’t need a gun,” sounding relieved. “The Devil Child has been injured. He will be easy to catch now.”

Will was backing away, watching the big man but also stealing looks at his shoulder. Blood? No, there was no blood, but it hurt. What the hell had happened to his shoulder? Or maybe Buffalo-head had noticed Will favoring one side because of the broken rib. His ribs hurt.

Then Will became more confused because the older Cuban stepped into the light close enough that Will could see the man’s metallic eyes and also the revolver he was holding, dust particles illuminated by its red laser beam. The man said calmly to Buffalo-head, “Step away. I won’t miss again.”

Again? Will took another look at his shoulder. If he’d been shot, why wasn’t there blood? More likely, he’d banged the doorframe, but he didn’t dwell on the pain because Metal-eyes was now walking toward the stallion, who had calmed a little. The man was pointing the gun at the horse’s head.

“Watch the boy. I want a clear shot.”

Will was thinking, He doesn’t mean it, he’s bluffing. No man in his right mind would shoot a good horse.

But the Cuban wasn’t like most men. He had his finger on the trigger, ready to fire.

Will yelled, “No! Don’t do it!,” as he stepped toward Metal-eyes, then screamed, “You sonuvabitch, you’re after me, not the horse. The horse didn’t do nothing!,” but could barely hear his own words because of a fresh roaring in his ears.

Metal-eyes ignored him, waiting for the horse to stop moving, the gun only a few yards from Cazzio’s head.

“You old bastard-I’m talking to you!” As Will said it, he knelt to grab the pole with the hypodermic needle taped to the tip.

That got the old Cuban’s attention. He called to Buffalo-head, “Take that damn thing away from him!,” then extended the gun, squinting at the horse.

Will sensed Buffalo-head’s bulk coming at him from the side. He turned in time to jab at him with the spear but the needle missed. The Cuban was still quick.

The boy took a step back-an intentional decoy-then lunged forward as Buffalo-head moved toward him. This time, the needle glanced off a rib or something, then sunk deep into the man’s belly flesh, before he jumped back, yelling, “ Pendejo! Damn you, that hurt!”

Metal-eyes called, “What did the brat do now?,” as he watched his partner touch his stomach, then study his fingers. “You oaf, you’re bleeding again. Had I known you were helpless against a child, I would have left you to shovel shit in Havana!”

Eager to prove him wrong, Buffalo-head held his hand out, relieved. “It’s nothing. He pricked me with a pin. Only a speck of blood.” He grinned. “The little Indian thinks his toy spear can hurt a Habanaro! A spanking, that is what this little Indian puta deserves.”

Metal-eyes’s eyes warned Be careful but Buffalo-head waved him away, his swagger saying Stop worrying! as he marched toward Will, who was now taunting him, “My pecker’s bigger than your horn! I won’t look so small when you’re on the floor!”