Randy White: Dead Silence

Because I had heard the wise-guy bluster of Otto Guttersen, I would not have believed it was him. It was similar in volume yet had a whispered edge that rasped, as if Guttersen’s larynx had been scarred by the memory of a long-ago scream.

“What are you talking about? I’m an associate of Dr. Ford’s. He asked me to show you aboard.” Farfel the interrogator had assumed the role of Cuban physician after stepping from the storage shed to introduce himself to Barbara and her unwelcome companion.

He was sticking to the role as Guttersen thrust his wheelchair forward, pursuing the man while making rasping accusations. Farfel had been as shocked to see Guttersen as Guttersen was to see his former tormentor.

Where had they met? No idea. Only Barbara had mentioned the showtime wrestler’s military background. But all the information I needed was in Guttersen’s venom the first time he spoke the name Farfel.

The invalid had been a POW-somewhere. As Roxanne Sofvia had said, “Does it matter which war?”

I had thought the woman naive, although her bitterness was justified. But she was right, I was wrong. These recent seconds had exposed my comfortable certainty as ignorance.

From the flybridge, peeking over the fairing, I had an elevated view of the area. The parking area was directly beneath me.

I could see that Guttersen was getting frustrated because of the sand, as he tried to press his attack on Farfel. And there was Barbara, dumbstruck, standing near the van, where the doors were still open, dome light on. Like the men, she was in shock.

Trailing southward was the estate’s private canal, water star-black, roiled by current where it emptied into an ocean inlet near mangrove bushes thirty yards away.

The yacht sat with its bow pointed toward the inlet, moored portside to a commercial-grade dock. The dock adjoined a party deck, where there was a chiki hut, a grill and outdoor speakers, all of it-parking area included-lighted by low-voltage lamps. The deck extended out over the water on pilings.

Farfel, I realized, wasn’t actually fleeing. Why would he? He had his laser-sighted pistol, although he hadn’t produced it. Instead, he was leading Guttersen toward the deck, where there was no railing, only a two-foot drop to the water.

Tide had flooded, current starting to turn.

“You cowardly sonuvabitch, why you running? My legs don’t work. You know why. You’re the one who did it!”

Barbara had finally recovered enough to attempt an intervention, saying, “What’s going on here? Mr. Guttersen, I think you’re overreacting. Why don’t we all calm down and discuss whatever it is that-”

Guttersen’s voice sounded close to normal as he snapped at her, “Shut up! If you want to do something useful, call one of them big shots, Minneapolis National Guard. They’ll tell you who this snake is! Or the doctors at the VA!”

“But you must be mistaken-”

Guttersen had reared his wheelchair onto the deck and was now using his fist to hammer at sand clogging the brakes. “Are you blind, lady? Look at his face! If you can’t see he’s lying, you’re dumb as rice, I shit thee not!”

Barbara was looking toward the yacht now, calling, “Ford! Where the hell are you?”

Beside me, Hump pressed the gun harder into my neck, and said, “After Farfel drowns the cripple, he’ll be mad if you answer. He told me that he would enjoy killing you more than killing the woman.”

At first I thought, Barbara. Farfel’s going to kill a senator? But then I understood. Hump was talking about Shelly Palmer.

“Navarro killed the woman detective?” I demanded.

Hump realized that he’d slipped up. “Uhhh… maybe I imagined him saying that before he returned to the stable. Yes, I’m sure now, because of our agreement.”

I felt an emotional jolt: a flurry of denial and self-reproach.. . then a flooding change in blood chemistry that was anger.

My arms were extended behind me. With my hands, I was doing what children do when they interlace their fingers and play Here’s the church, here’s the steeple, open up the doors and here’s-

“Stop moving,” Farfel said. “I have never shot a gun, but I know it’s loud. My ear, it is already aching.”

He was kneeling to my right, starboard side. When I glanced at him, I noticed something in the water, something moving. It was an elongated shadow gliding across the black water toward the dock where Farfel was standing, now taunting Guttersen with his patient denials.

The shape was pointed like the snout of an alligator-a huge gator, if I was right. It had to be fourteen feet long. It was moving fast, propelled by an effortless wake.

“Are you trying to trick me?” Hump was straining to follow my gaze without turning away.

I wanted to remove my glasses and clean them. Mangrove shadows cloaked details, but the speed was right, as well as the low, surface-flush profile. It’s illegal to feed gators in Florida, which makes people even more eager to do so. The big ones come to associate people with food. Gators have killed a dozen strollers and swimmers in recent years.

If Guttersen went into the water, drowning was the least of the man’s worries.

I whispered fast, “I’ll take you to the boy. He can remove the curse like he promised if you help me disarm Farfel. Just show me where you buried him.”

My offer keyed an alpha-male response and Hump used his left hand to slap the back of my head. “He was my father’s friend! Do you take me for an idiot?”

Behind my back, I snapped my fingers inward, levered my wrists outward and my hands exited the duct tape as if exiting a cave.

“Can you swim?” I asked the man.

“Of course! Not well, but-”

Before Hump could finish, I slapped the gun away, then looped my arm under his crotch as he attempted to stand, using the man’s own upward momentum to vault him over the railing. His three hundred pounds felt light because of my adrenal surge.

The man somersaulted backward, hollering, “Hey!,” as if offended. His body imploded the water surface with the sound of a refrigerator.

I looked to see the gator’s reaction, but it had disappeared-in front of the yacht possibly. Or it was now submerged, swimming toward the vibration of the huge Cuban’s thrashing.

I looped the noose off my neck, stripped the ball of tape from my wrists and knelt.

Shelly Palmer’s pistol was on the deck. A Glock-not a favorite, but it was loaded. I checked to make sure before scrambling down the ladder. As I sprinted across the gangway, I heard a man’s scream.

I hoped it was Hump. It wasn’t.

Guttersen!

Somehow, Otto Guttersen had gotten to his feet and was choking Farfel. He was wrestling with the Cuban, driving him toward the edge of the deck, as he screamed profanities, sputtering, “Die, you sonuvabitching snake, die!”

Why wasn’t Farfel using his gun?

There was a reason.

By the time I got to the men, Guttersen had the Cuban pinned, his body dwarfing the man, but I could see that Farfel was faceup, eyes glassy, as the big wrestler, clearly not a fraud, used an effective choke hold to position Farfel’s head over the water. Guttersen was using the wooden planking as a fulcrum, trying to snap the man’s neck

… or snap the man’s head off.

Barbara was pulling at Guttersen’s shoulders, yelling, “Stop, stop, stop! He’s dead! I think he’s dead!”

As I helped the woman calm Guttersen, I could see that she was right. But Guttersen hadn’t killed Farfel. It took me a dizzying, confused moment to understand. Protruding from beneath Farfel’s Adam’s apple was the steel point of a hunting arrow. It had pierced an area near the jugular, had maybe nicked it, judging from the amount of blood.