Randy White - Dead Silence

“ Magog? My God!” He took a long, slow breath. “That’s enough. There’s no possible way for you to know that name unless you spoke to-”

I said, “There’s always a way. I know a lot about you, Myles. Almost every question I ask, I already know the answer. Lie to me and I’ll take you back to that road.”

“You sonuvabitch,” he said. “You have been setting me up!”

“ Eight for yes, ” I replied. “Now it’s your turn. Besides Billy Sofvia, who knew you killed the girl? Norvin Tomlinson? Or maybe you snuck off to your island hideaway and confessed to all of your fraternity pals.”

His voice dropped a notch. “Who told you about the island? There can’t be more than two dozen people who know about Tamarindo. Tell me the man’s name and I’ll tell you the truth, deal?”

I’d been referring to Deer Island off Maine, not a tropical island. Tamarinds are an equatorial fruit. But I covered my surprise by saying, “How do you know it was a man? It could have been one of your fraternity sisters. Women Bonesmen: Ever think you’d see the day?”

Myles said, “You’re wrong about that. There are no women, not in our fraternity. Ever, ” his tone so bitter that I realized I had stumbled on something important. I let him talk.

He said, “Who sent you? What are you, an attorney? A private investigator? You’re not really a hit man. This whole thing has been an act.” His voice was getting louder. “Goddamn it, pull over!”

On the road ahead, just before the turnoff to the beach, was a maintenance shed and parking area screened from the road by trees. I’d seen it while jogging to the Falcon Landing entrance. I swung into the parking area and switched off the lights, listening to Myles rant, “Did one of those bitches send you?”

I replied, “Your fraternity sisters would object to the generalization.”

“Those self-righteous, manipulative bitches, that’s who’s behind this. Are they trying to get even because of my lawsuit? Or because someone took what they think belonged to them?”

I said, “You robbed your own fraternity house?”

“You can’t steal what you already own… And I’m not saying another word until you answer me. And don’t try your tough-guy lines again. I won’t fall for it. You’re not a killer. You’re a goddamn actor!”

When I put the Range Rover in park, he reached for the keys. I pushed his arm away. When he tried it again, I laced my arm around his elbow, applied enough pressure to slam him back into his seat. I brought out the little Seecamp. When he turned to protest, I jammed the gun barrel under his chin and lifted. I continued lifting until the man was half standing, head against the car’s roof. He had to grab the sun visor for balance.

I said, “Somehow, Magog, you got the wrong impression about me.”

He said, “You’re hurting me,” but was thinking about it, reassessing, not yet convinced.

When he made an effort to pull away, I wedged a thumb under his jaw and my two middle fingers into the socket beneath his left eye and shook him. My grip was as solid as if his skull were a bowling ball. Ironic. He couldn’t pry my fingers loose but kept trying until I banged the back of his head against the window.

“Know what I found out tonight?” I whispered. “I’m no actor. You need to pay attention, Mr. Myles.” Slowly, slowly, I removed my hand from his face, adding, “I’ve killed better men than you.”

Myles made the reflexive, mewing sound again as he inhaled. Maybe it was the way I said it or maybe because it was true, but the man became as submissive as he’d been on the dirt road.

“I got carried away,” he said. “I’m… sorry. But prying into my personal business, especially fraternity business, I lose my temper.”

“A club for college boys. Do fraternities have a rule against growing up?”

“You could never understand. Even new members don’t understand. It’s not really a fraternity. It’s a noble society, hundreds of years old, left to a very few of us in trust. I’ve had a lot of shitty things happen in my life. But being a Bonesman is the one good thing no one can ever take away from me.”

“Must have been tough when the court ruled in favor of admitting women.”

“That doesn’t mean it happened,” Myles replied, the softness going out of him.

“Well… I don’t give a damn about Skull and Bones. That’s not why I’m here,” I told him. “I’m after the boy.” I was holding the cell phone. “This is how it works. You have five minutes. I ask a question, you answer. Hesitate or lie to me, I slam your head into the window.” I touched the record icon and placed the phone on the dash. “ Talk.”

I wanted to know about Tamarindo. How far was it? How private? Had he told the Cubans about the place?

When he said, “I might have,” I felt the same weird transference as when I had cupped the little chunk of granite in my hand.

The island was south of Myakka Inlet, he told me, only two miles from the man’s beachfront property at Falcon Landing. That put it about forty miles north-northeast of Sanibel, close enough that I was suspicious. I’d never heard of the place. But then he explained, “That’s what we’ve always called it. On maps, it either doesn’t have a name or it’s called something else. It’s about ten miles north of Hog Island.”

I had boated past Hog Island, but it took a few seconds to make a more important connection. Hog Island was where police had trapped and arrested Barbara Mackle’s kidnapper, Gary Krist. My intuitive senses, never strong, were suddenly and subtly displacing reason. But I continued asking questions to assemble proof.

Myles told me his family had owned the island since the 1920s. It was small, about fifteen acres, mangrove bushes on the eastern rim, coconut palms, and a section of beach that faced Charlotte Harbor. His grandfather had built a private fishing camp that had become a retreat for three generations of Myles men. Myles had used the island as an occasional meeting place for his Skull and Bones friends.

I listened closely, trying to see his eyes in the dim dash lights, as he told me the island’s main cabin was built of block and stone. It had a complicated lock system, steel rods through all windows and doors, to discourage vandals. “Even though there’s nothing really valuable inside,” he said. “Some fishing gear and canned food, that’s all. But we don’t want outsiders wrecking the place.”

I thought, Right.

Like all islands with high ground, Tamarindo would be an easy place to dig a grave. Soft sand and shell, only a few feet above sea level. It’s where I would have left the boy if someone had screwed up my plans to use the horse-sized hole in the Hamptons.

My intuitive senses seemed to be right. Will Chaser was on Tamarindo-I knew it on a gut level buttressed by reason. There was a chance I’d find the Cubans there, too.

I checked my battered old Rolex: almost ten p.m. Ten hours nine minutes before the boy’s air ran out… if he was still breathing.

Hog Island was a little over an hour from Dinkin’s Bay in a fast boat, and I owned a fast boat. Suddenly, I was as eager to be free of Nelson Myles as he was eager to be free of me.

But now the man was talking nonstop, glancing occasionally at the little stainless-steel pistol I had placed on the console but also paying attention to the headlights of passing cars. I should have linked his behavior to the way he’d tried to manipulate me earlier, claiming he would talk more freely if we returned to Falcon Landing.

Even when a Wells Fargo security car appeared out of nowhere, skidding in behind us, yellow lights flashing, I didn’t grasp the significance.

“Rental cops,” I told him. “Keep your mouth shut or we both go to jail.” Myles wasn’t much of an actor either. He exaggerated his confusion as he craned his neck around to look, then overplayed his relief. “Don’t worry,” he said, speaking as if we were partners. “I know these two guys. I see them all the time.”