Randy White - Dead Silence

“Then get rid of them.”

He tried to lower his window, then tried to open his door, but I’d locked everything with the master switch. There was no override on the passenger side.

“I can’t tell them to go away,” he said impatiently, “if I can’t talk to them, now, can I?”

I was thinking about it as I watched the guards in the mirror. They rested their hands on their holsters as if unconcerned as they approached what had to be a familiar vehicle.

I said, “We’re not on Falcon Landing property?”

Myles said, “No, the county maintenance people use this place.”

“Then why are they bothering us?”

“Relax,” Myles told me. “They’re probably bored. They don’t get many calls. And they’re dumb as rocks. Let me handle it.”

I didn’t like the man’s airy tone. Was tempted to start the engine and drive away, but that guaranteed attention from the police-real cops, not the four-hours-of-training imitators.

The locks clicked in tandem when I touched the master switch, then lowered both windows. A Gulf wind flooded the cabin. I said, “Don’t get out,” looking at Myles, seeing his sullen face strobe in yellow rhythmic light.

I glanced in the mirror. Christ, now the security guards were drawing their weapons as they separated, one on each side of the Range Rover, crouching slightly as they came toward us.

I slid the Seecamp under the seat, then grabbed the cell phone from the dash. I punched the recorder’s OFF icon as I said, “Tell them who you are. That everything’s okay. We’re just talking.”

The man lay back in his seat as if he didn’t hear. I hissed, “Do it now!” He turned to me, a weak, nervous smile on his face. “Sure. But give me the cell phone first. Then I’ll get rid of them.”

The phone with his recorded confession.

I reached for the ignition. “I’ll take my chances with the rental cops.”

“Wait!” Myles tried to pull my hand away.

I said, “You’re not getting the phone.”

“But you’ve got to give it to me! They’re here because I called them… with this.” He was holding what looked like a garage opener. It had been clipped to the sun visor, the same visor he had grabbed to balance himself. “It’s a panic alert that works if you’re near the property. Press it and the security guys come running. But sometimes they call police, too!”

He sounded anxious, the way he said it, “police, too!,” as if he already regretted pushing the button. Now I understood why he had tried to maneuver me back to Falcon Landing.

“Give me the phone,” Myles said.

“Not a chance.”

“I’ll tell them it’s a false alarm. I swear.” Then he said, “Shit!,” leaning toward the window, listening. I could hear what he was hearing: the warble of sirens a few blocks away.

He began to panic. “Give me the phone! The real police will be here any minute!”

I shook my head no. I was still tempted to start the car and run for it, but that would’ve been the stupidest possible move. I had to let it play out. I said, “There aren’t many murderers who turn themselves in. I want to see how the cops react.”

“I had no choice. This is your fault.”

“It’s always someone else’s fault, right, Nels?”

“If you don’t give me the phone, I’ll them the truth… that you kidnapped me and threatened to kill me.”

Myles didn’t know I had a more compelling reason to avoid the police. But I said, “Maybe they’ll put us in the same cell. That would be nice, huh? Just the two of us… alone.”

I was watching the security guards in the mirror. They had stopped behind the car. One of them hollered, “Mr. Myles! Everything all right?,” talking loud because of the sirens.

I called through the open window, “Mr. Myles is just fine. We’re talking about going into the recording business.” I looked up at palm trees where fronds reflected the blue strobes of a squad car, slowing to turn into the parking lot. I looked at Myles. “I think we might have a big hit on our hands, Nels. Can you picture the headlines?”

Talking fast, he said, “I’ll help you find the missing kid, I swear to God. Give me the phone. We can use my boat if you want. I’ll tell them it was a false alarm. If I tell them, they’ll believe me. We don’t have to do this!”

“You’re right,” I replied. “You’re taking a stupid risk. Get rid of them. But it’s your call. No matter what, I keep the phone.”

He was looking out the side window. “Jesus Christ, they’re here! Why are you being so damn stubborn? I offered to help you.”

I said, “Tell them you hit the button accidentally. You claim Bonesmen are noble? Prove it by helping me help the kid. I’ll decide later if I give the recording to police.”

A lie. Annie Sylvester’s family deserved to know where she was buried and who had killed her. Myles probably realized what I was doing: The shrewd anticipate deceit by projecting their behavior onto others. But the man had no choice… Until a polite policeman told us to step out of the car, then asked me for identification.

“It’s procedure,” he said, sounding bored until I hesitated, undecided if I should break one of my own rules and lie to a cop. I own several false passports, but it was pointless to carry one in my own home state. All I had was a driver’s license.

“Left your wallet at home, did you?” the officer suggested, suddenly more interested. “What’s your name?”

That’s when Myles surprised me, saying, “I can vouch for this man. He’s a business associate of mine.” He was standing near the security guards, who had made their deference obvious.

The cop appeared satisfied, but he was also studying Myles-seeing the stained pants, the swollen ear-as Myles turned to me, thrust out his hand and said, “I bet you left your wallet near the pool. Give me my cell phone, I’ll call the wife.”

I looked at his hand, aware the officer was staring. “I didn’t lose my wallet,” I said. “I think I left it in the car. I’ll take a look.”

I opened the car, pretended to look for the license and handed it to the officer. I watched his face, then winced inwardly at the man’s reaction as he read my name.

“Marion Ford,” the cop said, sounding cheerful, but his cheeriness was steel. “As in Dr. Ford, the biologist?”

“That’s right.”

Now the officer was smiling but also backing away as he touched a hand to his sidearm and unsnapped the holster. “I have some friends who’ve been looking for you, Dr. Ford. So what I’d like you to do right now is empty your pockets, then have a seat in the back of my vehicle.”

He glanced at Myles, the rich, respected Falcon Landing resident, who looked from me to the cop, his eyes signaling a reminder. The cop’s eyes signaled respect in reply.

As I processed the exchange, the image of an iceberg came into my mind. Odd, until I remembered a conversation I’d had on a faraway winter beach. The father of a dead girl, Virgil Sylvester, had described an iceberg he had seen off Nova Scotia, its peaks like fire at sunrise, the ocean dark beneath.

“It’s that kind of power they got,” the fishermen had told me. “Even when they use it, you don’t see it.”

I’d heard the man’s words but was deaf to their gravity.

“Oh, one more thing, Dr. Ford,” the cop said. “While you’re emptying your pockets, give Mr. Myles his telephone back, okay?”

The police detective, a woman named Shelly Palmer, told me she lived in Cape Coral, not far from Pine Island and the fishing village of Gumbo Limbo, where the late Bern Heller had owned a marina until he was sent to prison and his business went into foreclosure.