Randy White - Dead Silence

Slowly, I got to my knees, then sat with my legs crossed, saying, “Anything you want, name it.”

The slang puzzled him, because he replied, “The senator who is your friend-what is the name, Barbara Hayes-Sorrento?-the woman from your government who controls the property stolen from the Bearded One. The senator telephoned you earlier. Now you will telephone her.”

He placed the phone on the floor and moved away to give me room.

“The senator will be in Florida tonight,” Farfel said, sounding proud he’d manipulated information. “She lands at midnight in Tampa. The senator told me this personally, so I know it to be true.”

Midnight? It was after one a.m. now. Maybe there’d been a layover in Atlanta and Barbara called me just before boarding.

I listened to Farfel say, “You will tell your famous friend to meet you, not us. You will tell the senator that you are alone. If you choose, say you have found the obnoxious little brat. I don’t care what you tell her but convince her to come.”

“Come where?”

“Here! Where the boat is docked. Are all boat drivers idiots? Tell her it is important. You will have the boat running and will invite her for a voyage-” The man paused midsentence, head tilted, his attention shifting to a faraway sound. It was a familiar sound to me: the rhythmic strokes of helicopter blades.

A helicopter…

To me, it was the sound of a cavalry bugler. As I listened, I experienced the buoyant optimism it had produced in me years ago in a faraway jungle.

I risked a glance at Shelly Palmer as the chopper approached. She was staring at the ceiling, her expression eager. The helicopter was coming straight for us. No mistaking the thrashing whompa-whompa-whompa of its blades.

I moved my head as if tuning an antenna. Was the aircraft descending?

No…

The building shuddered as the chopper roared overhead, flying low and fast toward the southwest.

The helicopter wasn’t coming for us. It was the aircraft Myles had been promised. He’d been told the sheriff ’s department would check Tamarindo for unusual activity. But if the multimillionaire wasn’t on the island to meet the crew, would they keep looking?

Farfel was rattled. He began to pace again, muttering. His reaction explained why he wanted to lure Barbara onto the boat. He needed a more important hostage to guarantee his escape. He needed his original target, a U.S. senator.

I wasn’t convinced that law enforcement was closing in, but the Cubans believed it. It showed.

Farfel used his eyes to communicate something to Hump as he shouted at me, “Why haven’t you done what I told you to do? Are you stubborn as well as stupid?” His eyes moved to the phone. It was midway between us on the floor.

I started to reply, but he talked over me, demanding, “Call the senator now. Convince her, say whatever is necessary. But I warn you, don’t attempt your silly code words to trick me. Mr. Myles told us the meaning of those numbers, eight and seven. He told me everything I wanted to-”

I didn’t hear him finish because Hump collapsed his weight on me. No finesse, just dropped his body down on me with the weight of a floor safe. The unexpected impact dazed me and might have broken my neck if I hadn’t turned first, alerted by the sound of his feet.

By the time my head cleared, I was lying on my belly, struggling to breathe beneath Hump’s bulk. He weighed more than three hundred pounds.

I heard Farfel giving instructions, telling Hump to pull my arms behind my back, to make sure I couldn’t move. As I looked up, Farfel was walking toward me. He had the phone in one hand, the electric drill in the other, feeding out the extension cord as he crossed the floor.

Palmer was yelling, “What are you doing? This is crazy! Why?, ” as I experimented with Hump’s weight, testing to see if I could find purchase with my shoes and create enough lift to get my knees under me. The giant lay atop me like a blanket, most of his weight centered on my upper body. That was good for me, bad for him. So I didn’t struggle as he levered my left wrist up behind my shoulder blades.

I was lying on my right arm. He wanted that, too, but I pretended I couldn’t move when he tried to thread his hand under my bicep and pry my hidden wrist free.

In Spanish, Hump told Farfel, “I have him, don’t worry. He can’t move now.” He was breathing heavily, already winded.

Hump was wrong. Only another wrestler would understand, but the man had positioned himself too close to my shoulders to control the strongest part on my body: my legs. He was riding too high, in wrestling terms, a mistake all beginners make.

Hump could have weighed four hundred pounds, it would have made no difference. Whenever I wanted, I could loop my right hand over the back of his neck, then buck him forward and over my head as I scrambled free from beneath him. Out the back door: more wrestling slang.

Next to my head-that’s where Farfel would soon be kneeling. He had done the same thing to Nelson Myles when Myles was talking to me on the phone, used the drill to intimidate. As Farfel drew nearer, he pressed the drill’s trigger for effect, its cat-high whine like fingernails on a blackboard.

I arched my back to take a look. The little man was grinning, enjoying himself, letting Palmer see the drill, holding the thing like a trophy, revving it like a motorcycle. Showing off his power, as Farfel had probably done a hundred times before to torment prisoners.

The woman was on her feet now, still yelling, demanding that he stop, saying, “I’ll make your goddamn call for you. I’ll do anything you want, just stop, please!”

I wanted her to shut up, to move away and to let Farfel get closer. I wanted him close enough to kneel and to touch the drill to my skull. If I timed it right, if I synchronized the movement of my legs and free hand, Hump would soon somersault atop Farfel, crushing the little man instead of me.

But Palmer didn’t move away. She continued screaming, so angry she was now taking zombie steps toward Farfel, who appeared irritated at first, then vicious. Before I could reassess, he used the drill to club the woman. Hit her fast with the butt, knocking her to the ground. Then Farfel dropped down over her, his knees pinning her shoulders and framing her face like a vise.

“This is a better way,” he called to me, speaking Spanish now as he returned his attention to Palmer. He released the drill’s trigger as he leaned over her but didn’t wait for the bit to stop before he touched its steel to the detective’s head.

The woman’s scream extended into the gradual silence of the slowing drill. There was blood but just a trickle. Farfel had only pierced her skin.

“A hole in the lady’s forehead,” he called to me. “Even a fish doctor knows the significance of the frontal lobe. Do what I tell you to do or I will begin my experiment. Later, I will make notes!” Because he was more articulate in Spanish, the man sounded even more desperate and insane.

I did what I was told. I called Barbara Hayes-Sorrento. It was maddening how easy it was to convince her that I needed to see her. Barbara said she was in a van, driving from the airport to Siesta Key, only twenty miles north.

I wanted her to be suspicious of my monotone sincerity, of my indifferent urging. She wasn’t, and I couldn’t risk making my lies more obvious.

But, as I calmly gave her directions, she was curious about one oddity.

“What’s that weird whining noise in the background?” she asked. “The phone I gave you is expensive. Did you get it wet or what?”

Maybe I’ve done it, Will Chaser thought. Some good luck, finally.

He was hoping he had hammered his head against the coffin so hard, so relentlessly, that he was now unconscious and only dreaming. It struck him as a possibility because the water was up to his cheekbones now, but he no longer cared.