Randy White - Dead Silence

“Ford, have you gone crazy? The man told you to get lost!”

I said, “You heard his voice, and whatever the hell that was in the background. A drill?”

“Drills aren’t illegal. Trespassing is.”

“Shelly,” I said, “something’s wrong, and you know it. Get on the radio, call for backup.”

“And tell them what? I’m worried about dangerous hand tools?”

I didn’t want to wait while she thought it over. “Goddamn it, trust me. Do it! You want proof I’m serious?” My mouth was moving before I’d thought it out. “Okay, here’s proof: I killed Bern Heller, I’m confessing. I dumped him two miles offshore. I told him to swim for shore but knew he wouldn’t make it.”

I expected some word or gesture of surprise. Instead, she took a long, slow breath, before she flipped off the emergency lights, then accelerated through the intersection. “I know that,” she said, her voice calm. “It’s why I tipped you off about the witness… and offered you the chance to cancel. When you stepped out into that parking lot, I thought you were an idiot.”

I said, “I thought you’d slipped up.”

Palmer shook her head. “I was giving you a chance to put it together. Did you?”

“You tell me. The woman’s a physician at Memorial Hospital, right?”

That did surprise her. “How did you know?”

I said, “You told me. The rest I figured out. Mid-twenties, brown hair, attractive. Emotionally traumatized, which is no surprise-”

“No… early thirties, just finishing her internship. Her name is…” Palmer hesitated. Sharing information went against her cop instincts. “Her name’s Leslie DiAngelo. She’s got the looks, and all the brains in the world. That’s why, I guess, it makes me mad, how stupid she was.”

Her flat inflection said she knew the price of throwing something good away.

“Call for backup, Shelly. Trust me.”

As we skidded into the beach parking lot, Palmer said, “I’ll call in our location and schedule recontact every half hour. That’s the best I can do,” then surprised me by locking her vehicle as I returned from my rental car carrying a foul-weather jacket and the little ASP Triad flashlight.

“I’m going with you,” she told me.

Meaning, over the wall.

Water was beginning to seep into Will Chaser’s coffin. He had told himself things couldn’t possibly get any worse, but here it was.

Because his jeans were already soaked, he hadn’t noticed the water until it began sloshing at his earlobes. He had been dozing, or drifting, or hallucinating-Will could no longer differentiate-but the sudden reality that the box was flooding caused him to flinch so hard that he’d banged his face against the lid. The thing was only inches from his nose.

He had banged the lid before but intentionally. This was as Buffalo-head began shoveling dirt, filling the grave. That steady drumming of earth on wood was a Sunday sound, a sound that smelled of greenhouse flowers-or suffocation-and Will had reacted by slamming his head against the coffin over and over and over, ramming it with his forehead.

Will had continued hammering until the coffin vibrated like a drum skin. He timed the blows to countersynch with Buffalo-head’s shoveling as he shrieked for the Cuban to stop, please stop!

Incredibly, the man did. After a minute of silence, Will could hardly believe his good fortune when the lid creaked open, sunlight streaming in, and there was Buffalo-head’s massive face.

“You have chewed through the tape already?” For some reason, the man had cast a furtive, guilty look over his shoulder, as if fearful Metal-eyes was watching.

“Don’t tape my mouth again,” Will had pleaded. “Please. I can’t breath. Do you want to kill me?”

Hump said, “Yes, of course. But Farfel won’t let me. I’m sorry.” Again, the man glanced over his shoulder.

Will had almost asked why but decided not to risk a long list of reasons. Hump was an idiot but he had a temper, and it was a bad move to remind him.

Instead, Will had asked, “Why are you burying me if you’re not allowed to kill me?”

“We all have our own reasons,” Hump had replied. “The maricon from Venezuela wants to protect the church from scandal. Farfel wants to protect us from Nazi hunters. And the American-well, who knows? He is a silent one, that man, and I don’t trust him.”

Will had no idea what Buffalo-head was talking about, but he spoke so earnestly Will didn’t doubt the truth of it. But the information wasn’t going to help him escape from the damn coffin.

“I have my own reasons for not wanting to die,” Will said. “Let me out-only for a minute or two-and I’ll tell you.”

“Can’t you think of anyone but yourself?” Buffalo-head said, then took another quick look around before leaning closer to whisper, “May I ask you a question?”

Will wanted to spit in the man’s face but sensed an opening. “We’re friends. You said so yourself, at the horse ranch.”

Before Hump could respond with “Where you chewed my ear off?,” Will had added quickly, “I would like to be friends. This is a competitive situation, like a baseball game… or a gunfight like in the westerns on TV. Of course, we both fight hard to win, but I’ve come to admire your great strength, and your”-Will couldn’t think of another reason-“and your great strength. Ask me anything.”

Hump had caught himself leaning yet closer but pulled away when he remembered Farfel’s bloody hand. “In Havana,” he said, “I know many Santeria priests. It is why I wear these beads.”

Will hadn’t noticed the string of red, black and blue beads around the man’s neck, but now he saw them and heard them rattle.

“Very beautiful,” Will offered. “Plastic?”

“Yes, and they’ve been blessed. They are supposed to protect me from things that would frighten any man. Snakes, for instance. Or giant alligators. I’ve heard there are many on American golf courses. Mostly, though, the beads protect me from the curse of an evil person.”

Will nodded as if that made sense.

“That is what I want to ask. Have you placed a curse on me? It is nothing to be ashamed of if you have done this thing. I believe the devil is in you. In fact, I call you Devil Child.” The man said it as if Will should be proud.

Will had realized that his answer was important. He glanced at the blue sky, longing to be beneath it. “Yes,” he said, “I’ve placed a curse on your head. The worst curse I know. I’ve cast a secret spell but now would like to remove it. But I can’t-not now.”

“Why?”

“Because… because…”-Will was thinking, Shit, try to remember some Indian superstitions- “because I am an Indian shaman,” he said, “and we can’t remove curses unless we are… on a boat.. . on the water. I think of you as my friend now. I want to take back my curse. So if you would only-”

“I can’t,” Hump whispered, suddenly in a rush. “But I’ll come back-I promise. Until then, I thought that if I brought you an offering it would help. Something powerful, such as an object used by the Santeria priests, that you would at least reduce this curse.”

Metal-eyes must have been returning because Hump finished with, “Here, take this. I’ll be back. I swear!”

The man had tossed an object into the coffin, something hard and gray and round. Will thought it was a coconut shell at first. But in the last wedge of light, before the Cuban quietly closed the lid, Will realized it wasn’t a coconut.

Will was screaming as Hump began shoveling sand onto the coffin. Will twisted his body to get as close as he could to the PVC air tube so Hump could hear him, but Hump ignored Will’s screams and only shoveled faster. He was afraid Farfel would return from the cabin to ask questions.