Randy White - Dead Silence

I was trying to picture the ex-pro wrestler Outlaw Bull Guttersen plowing his wheelchair through sand on some Gulf beach, as Barbara added, “Dan was just here, that’s why I had to call you back. Mr. Guttersen has been through some really bad times in his life, but nothing’s hit him like this.”

I said, “I was surprised by how emotional he sounded on the phone,” still scanning for a way to finagle a special flight. If I flew out of JFK by three, I could be in Florida by dusk.

“It would mean a lot to me, Doc, if you were there. It would be good for the Guttersens, too. Give Mr. Guttersen someone to talk to. In Florida, at least, he and his wife can get outside instead of sitting around going stir-crazy waiting for news. Dan told me it’s been freezing cold up there. Something like fifteen below in Minneapolis… not counting windchill.”

Over the hours, Will dozed, he reminisced, he raged and cried, and occasionally slept, but never for long because he was awakened by nightmares.

Sometimes, Will imagined that his box was moving. Or possibly it did move, although never very much. The boy couldn’t be sure because his dreams, his thoughts, his memories were all so tangled by the relentless darkness and the drug Ketamine that was still filtering through his veins.

Hours ago, Will had quit fighting his insistent bladder and decided to piss his jeans whenever he needed. For a time, pissing became his primary recreation, counting in his head to see how long he could keep the stream going. Now his jeans were sodden, but his body was empty of fluids.

Because he was thirsty, it was pleasurable-for a while anyway-to imagine himself diving into a glacial lake and drinking his fill of water that was crystalline blue like a Minnesota sky.

But Will had stopped doing that because it made him even thirstier, and also because it was so damn cold inside the box. Freezing, in fact. And Will began to suspect that Buffalo-head had carried out his threat.

How would you like to be buried in the cold, cold earth?

Now, mumbling through the tape on his mouth, Will barked a reply, “I wouldn’t like it worth a damn, you creep.”

My God, he was cold! No wind. No light. Maybe the bastards really had buried him!

As he pondered that, Will became aware of a red-tinted darkness blooming behind his eyes, but he stopped it, thinking, Don’t… Don’t, terrified of the insanity that threatened from just beyond the limits of his own anger.

It was safer to focus on how cold he was rather than the heat attempting to fire his temper, so Will moved his thoughts there.

Colder than a nun at a prison rodeo. Colder than a well-digger’s ass. Colder than Custer’s nuts! Colder than… Colder than… Well, it’s no colder than downtown Minneapolis in January, with snow falling.

One below-not counting windchill.

Bull Guttersen’s line. The man claimed to be seriously thinking of putting it on his tombstone-if no one had used it first, of course. He was a stickler about originality. Intellectual property, he called it, and he had confided to Will that the wrestling characters he’d invented, Outlaw Bull Gutter or Sheriff Bull Gutter, might one day make them all wealthy.

“Just you watch,” the man had said. “When Hollywood finally gets hold of its senses and stops making them candy-ass, cartoon-robot shoot-’em-ups, they’ll snoop around for a new hero until they sniff gold. Never been two finer intellectual properties created than Outlaw Bull and Sheriff Bull, so I expect we’ll cash in before I die.”

We’ll cash in, talking like Will was an actual member of the family instead of just temporary, although Bull had demanded a second-year extension to the Lutherans’ usual one-year guardianship.

It was weird for Will to think of himself dead and buried before the old man beat him to it. Especially considering how they’d met that first day when Guttersen had said something flippant about the garbage bag Will had been carrying, miffed that his suicide had been interrupted.

Guttersen’s revolver had been loaded with. 38 caliber Hydra-Shoks. Will could picture them in the cylinder now, as he retreated into a safer venue of thought. The bullets had looked as symmetrical as spider eggs when Guttersen lowered the gun from his own temple and pointed it at Will’s chest.

The bullets had ugly, puckered golden tips. They were called Man Stoppers at Minneapolis gun shows and marketed exactly for such an occasion: home alone, enjoying the comforts of a remodeled basement-a little bar and a flat-screen TV-only to be interrupted by a robber whose dark skin indicated that he probably was a crack addict and also unpredictable, unlike teenagers of Norwegian descent.

Instead, Will had heard click as the gun’s cylinder rotated and the hammer locked back, Guttersen making his smart-assed remark about him being disinclined to offer Will a beer while waiting for the ambulance.

What happened next, though, was the strangest part of what had already been a strange, strange day. Guttersen had flipped the revolver around and caught it by the barrel. The move had spooked Will so badly that he threw his hands up and closed his eyes, expecting to be shot. A second later, though, when he peeked, Will was surprised to see the man extending his arm, wanting Will to take the gun.

Guttersen had said to him, patiently, “You gotta pull the hammer back before you fire. It’s single-action. And don’t close your damn eyes! If you miss, I swear to God I’ll testify against you in court.”

Will had said, “Do what?,” even though he knew what the man wanted.

“Take the damn gun!”

Will had curled his fingers around the gun’s weight, his thumb automatically finding the hammer, as Guttersen told him, “My coin collection’s in the pantry, what looks like a candy box. There’s a Mercury dime worth five hundred bucks, I shit thee not. And a hundred seven Liberty-head silver dollars-you can figure that one out for yourself.”

Will understood more about that than the old man realized. He liked coins and had kept a few from the pawnbroker. “The dime-must be the 1940-S, huh?” he offered.

“Mint condition,” Guttersen told him. “But pay attention, damn it, I’m trying to talk. My wife keeps her jewelry in the commercial freezer. One of those Tupperware-thingee containers. Most of it’s fake, but, Jesus Christ, don’t let word get back to her-especially the diamond necklace, which is zirconium. She’ll pretend it don’t bother her, but she’ll do it in a way that drives everybody nuts. Not that you won’t find plenty of other valuables,” the man had added quickly. “Don’t get me wrong.”

Guttersen began moving his wheelchair as he gave instructions, positioning himself near the bar where there was Mexican tile, not carpet: less mess, and a clear shot for Will.

The old man said, “My wife left for the hairdresser’s only ’bout half an hour ago, but sometimes she forgets stuff and comes back unannounced. And some of those-what do you call ’em?- technicians color roots faster than others, so you never know. Catch my meaning? We don’t have time to waste.”

The man had paused and looked at the boy for a moment before warning, “About my wife… don’t you lay a damn hand on her. Hear me? You touch my wife, I’ll come back from the grave and tear you a new asshole. Savvy?”

Jesus, talking like they were in a TV western, Will being the dumb Indian, but a fire spark glowed in the old man’s eyes so Will didn’t comment, even after the spark faded.

Guttersen had turned the chair so he was looking at photos that hung over the bar. He straightened his T-shirt, took a deep breath and cleared his throat. Then he said, “Okay. I’m ready. Go.”