Randy White - Dead Silence

“Always or just tonight?”

The driver said, “Mister, I do what they tell me. It’s what we always use.” He drew on his cigarette and began to pace.

“If you don’t get much of a freeze, you can’t get that much snow.” I addressed the cops. “What’s the D.O.T. use for snow markers? Fiberglass poles, something like that? This is galvanized pipe, three-inch tubing. Why use hollow pipe as a marker?”

I tapped on the pipe again. Cupped my hands and put my mouth to the opening. Hoped Heffner couldn’t hear me as I hissed into the pipe, “William? Will?”

Heffner was saying, “That does it! What you’re doing constitutes slander,” but stopped when one of the cops got a radio call. As he stepped away, I went to the second grave and waved for Tomlinson to follow.

“What do you think?” I used the flashlight on the pipe. Ping-ping-ping. Cupped my hand around the opening and called the boy’s name again. We both leaned to listen-nothing. I sniffed the opening. Air warmer, musky.

“The cops know what you’re thinking, Doc. Heffner’s about to lose it. I’m all for you, man, but… the vibes just aren’t here for me.”

“I don’t care about vibes. Think about the boy.”

He was silent for a moment. “Okay, I will. Step back a second. Metal’s an excellent conductor.”

I watched Tomlinson touch his hand to the pipe, then close his eyes. He made a humming noise: Ommmmmm.

I waited.

He opened his eyes. “Blank screen. It’s just not happening, man. Sorry.”

I was unconvinced.

He said, “Hey, amigo, you’re the logical one. Think it through. Kidnappers wouldn’t bury the kid close to home, then tell the cops where to find him. If my brother’s involved, he’s too smart. Anyone living in the Hamptons is too smart.”

I said, “Kidnappers lie. Once they get what they want, they don’t have to tell us where he’s buried. It’s too much trouble keeping a hostage alive. Most are killed in the first twenty-four hours.”

Tomlinson sighed and put his hands to the pipe again. Kept his eyes closed for several seconds. “A shape… bones. A scar. Neutral something. Oh… a gelding. I forgot.” He stood, shaking his head. “Nothing human coming through. Not a spark. Even dead, I don’t think the boy’s down there.”

I said, “Are you ever wrong?”

When Tomlinson realized I wasn’t joking, he gave me an odd look. “You’re admitting that I’m sometimes right? I wish I had it on tape. That kid really does have his hooks in you.”

I was watching Heffner talking with the cops. “Just tell me the odds. They’re about to pull the plug.”

“I miss signals sometimes, sure. Especially when I try too hard. Or if someone’s on a whole different frequency. Some people, it’s like they’ve got kryptonite shields. You, for instance. Lately, though, I’ve been zone-solid.”

I ignored Heffner, who was calling to me, saying, “Enough! We’re done for the night,” as Tomlinson followed me to Cazzio’s grave. I nodded to the pipe. “Try again.”

“You’re serious.”

“It can’t hurt. You’ve got the credentials. Some people in law enforcement believe in this stuff. What you say carries weight.”

Tomlinson whispered, “If you want me to lie, just say the word.”

I gave him a look: Hurry up.

“Okay, but you first. I’m serious, man. You and that boy are on some tribal wavelength. That’s what I think’s going on here. A frequency not on my dial. So give it a shot-”

“Damn it, Tomlinson-”

“It can’t hurt: your words.”

I didn’t want to tell him that I had already tried. Back on the road, holding the rock, maybe I had felt something but knew it was my imagination.

He sighed. “Okay, okay.” Then went through the ceremony, hands on metal, eyes closed. After a few seconds, he said in a monotone, “Flesh

… residual spirit. Power, very intense, relentless. An odor… too. Weird.” He was silent. “A smell of… pears? Copper, like when it’s been cut. Copper mixed with pears, that’s the odor.” He sounded puzzled but then let it go. “Bone… bone splinters, a fracture. Some metal. Could be the bullets.” He opened his eyes. “Nothing human.”

“That’s all?”

“You tell me.”

Tomlinson pointed at the pipe as one of the cops called to us, “Guys… gentlemen? I just got a call from the station. We’re leaving.”

I touched a hand to the galvanized metal- Cold- as Tomlinson whispered, “Stick with it.”

The cop raised his voice. “Dr. Ford? I’m asking you nice, but only once. Tests are back from the lab. Blood on the wrench wasn’t the missing boy’s blood. Not a match. It’s definite.”

I was thinking about Harrington, wondering if there was a chance Farfel’s and Hump’s blood types were in the records.

Tomlinson tried to buy some time, saying, “What about the DNA? They were going to compare hair samples.”

Heffner was getting madder. “Nothing matches. There is absolutely no evidence the missing kid was on this property. In fact, there’s no evidence”-the attorney stopped to say something to the cop, who nodded-“they don’t even think the boy was in the area. There was a possible sighting somewhere in Indiana. Another in Jersey. Can’t you get it through your heads? The boy wasn’t here!”

I still had my hand on the pipe, but not because I hoped for some telepathic cry for help. My willingness to believe, even temporarily, signaled a simple fact: If Will Chaser had been buried alive here, he would soon be dead. Or already was. Right or wrong, I had to press the issue. There was enough linkage to risk it. Every second mattered.

The cops were walking toward us, one of them telling me, “At the station, they’re questioning some teenagers right now. There’s been a series of break-ins, drug-related. Probably a couple of screwed-up kids broke into the barn, then shot the horse.”

The other cop added, “Dr. Ford, one way or the other you are leaving- now.”

Irrational, but my feet wouldn’t move. “Nothing I have heard,” I told them, “explains why three-inch pipes were sunk into these graves. Sorry, until I get an answer I’m going to insist that-”

The backhoe operator surprised us all, calling, “Okay, okay! I lied! But it’s not my fault, I swear!”

Everyone stopped.

The man sounded exhausted as he rushed to say, “It’s what they told me to do. So I did it, okay? That’s the truth. But it was their idea. I’ve got a family to feed!”

I turned and began ramming the pipe with my shoulder, hoping to widen the size of the boy’s airway, as Heffner snapped, “Shut your mouth, you idiot! Not another word!”

When he realized how damning it sounded, his tone became apologetic as he said to the police, “This has nothing to do with that missing boy. The man’s a drunk, you know his record. Believe me, I can explain.”

Then he did explain, saying the three-inch tubing had been inserted to relieve water pressure “in the unlikely event” that water seeped into the graves.

The backhoe driver wouldn’t have fared well in an interrogation. His eagerness to confess made him far more convincing.

“There’s almost always water when I dig out here,” he told us, sounding panicked. “I admit it. I knew I was breaking the law but kept digging these damn holes anyway. One day, sooner or later, someone had to figure it out. I don’t know what kinda doctor this guy is, but he was the first to notice what worried me from the start, ’cause it’s so damn obvious. Snow’s not the reason we use those pipes. We use pipe so the water has a place to go. So pressure doesn’t build up.”

I found out later that the backhoe operator had two DUIs on his record. He feared one more arrest, even for breaking a county ordinance, would put him in jail.