Randy White - Dead Silence

“No news, I’m afraid. We’ve put a few pieces of the puzzle together, but nothing at all on the boy. The senator’s been trying to contact his parents. Apparently, the father abandoned the family long ago. And staff can’t seem to locate the mother.”

Because the Brit read my expression correctly, he added, “It wasn’t his parents. The boy lives with a foster family in Minneapolis. The men were after Barbara, no one doubts that. Thanks to you, I was able to steer her out of harm’s way. Taking the child wasn’t planned. It may be true of the limo driver as well, but that’s not been confirmed.”

I said, “William Chaser, a teenager from Minnesota. The police kept me updated.”

“Yes-Will I think he’s called. Good organization, the NYPD. They’ve assigned liaison officers to keep the senator informed. She’s very pleased you got one of the kidnappers but worried about you catching pneumonia.”

I was picturing the kid in his cowboy hat and boots, seeing his tough-guy expression when I ordered him back in the limo. By now, he had probably bawled himself dry, too scared to risk his cowboy act.

I said, “No father, living with a foster family? Jesus, a high school freshman. That makes him about thirteen years old.”

Hooker said, “Fourteen. He was held back last term.”

“Huh?” I didn’t know details, but the essay contest had to be a big deal if the prize was a trip to New York. Statewide, maybe nationwide. And from Minnesota? He was no dummy.

“Perhaps troubled,” Hooker offered. Barbara’s staff had assembled all the info they could gather on the teen-not easily done because they couldn’t contact his teachers or friends until a parent had been notified. The foster parents didn’t count because they weren’t adopting, they were volunteers with Lutheran Social Services. The program provided temporary homes for teens at risk.

Will Chaser had actually grown up on an Indian reservation south of Oklahoma City, Hooker told me. It explained the cowboy connection. The reservation was in Seminole County, oil and gas country, but also a stronghold of federally funded ghettos and the apparatus associated with despair: day care, public housing, programs for substance abusers, which included about sixty percent of the adult male population.

Two years ago, the Indian Opportunities Center had “relocated” the boy to a Sioux reservation near Fond du Lac. Maybe he had gotten in trouble, or maybe he’d displayed uncommon talent. A few months later, Lutheran Social Services accepted him into their Foster Grandparents Program. He had been living in Minneapolis ever since with a couple in their fifties, Ruth and Otto Guttersen. If the senator’s staff couldn’t contact the birth parents by midnight, the FBI would notify the Guttersens that Will had been abducted.

Hooker said, “The child has already had his share of trouble. A bloody pity he has to go through something like this.”

“Fourteen years old,” I repeated, feeling a renewed urgency. I checked my watch: 9:40 p.m.

An abduction fires the irrational in rational people. The brain’s flight-or-fight response triggers a craving to do something even when waiting is the only option and there is no visible foe to fight. I’d been through it.

Maybe the Brit understood because he made an effort to lighten the mood, waving me into the kitchen as he said, “While awaiting battle, the wise knight oils his armor.” He took a six-pack from the refrigerator. “Care for a drop or two?”

Rolling Rock, green bottles. When I reached for one, he warned, “Not yet,” then used his steel pincers to pop the tops.

“Handy.”

“That’s why it’s attached to my wrist. But this doesn’t compare to an ice ax. You made an unusual choice of weapons, Ford. If memory serves, the intelligence services haven’t used an ice ax since your people summited Leon Trotsky in Mexico.”

I took a step and winced because of my knee. “I’d forgotten. But they left the business end in Trotsky’s head, didn’t they? I left mine in the street. If it’s valuable, I hope someone returned it.”

“The last man to use that ax was Sir Edmund on Everest. Thanks to you, I may lose my fellowship next committee vote.” The Brit smiled. “Don’t worry, the ax is back on the wall. And Hilly would have approved, I think.”

I followed him around the corner into the sitting room, where management had set up a buffet table. In the adjoining suite, they had also installed desks and additional computer lines.

The room was crowded. A half dozen people, a plainclothes bodyguard, plus Senator Hayes-Sorrento, who was pacing the terrace, a phone wedged against her ear. Staffers were also on phones or frowning at their computer screens. When the woman noticed me, she waved and managed a wan smile but continued talking, emphasizing a point to some subordinate.

The senator looked good for a woman who had just been assaulted. Blue blouse, gray slacks-the first female on the hill to wear men’s suits. She had been a TV anchor before inheriting a congressional seat from her late husband. The woman still had the requisite good chin and eyes, the photogenic jaw that could flex on cue. She was also smart as hell. The Senate was the next logical step.

Writers described her as handsome, a word safely attached because the mix of feminine and masculine reflected her political style but also transmitted a sexuality that was pure female. It was no charade. On a recent Caribbean vacation, it had almost ruined the senator’s career. A blackmailer, a hidden camera and a beachboy were involved.

Thanks to random good luck, I was able to snatch the video and return it. Barbara and I had had a few dates since, but I didn’t feel the abdominal awareness that signals sexual chemistry-possibly because those signals weren’t being sent by Barbara.

I liked the woman. She was driven and complex, and aggressively private in the way some public figures are. Because of the way I’d dealt with the video, she trusted me. Because I knew the video’s content, pretense was pointless. The woman felt free to say damn-near anything when we were alone together. We hadn’t known each other long, we weren’t lovers, yet were becoming confidants. It was an unusual relationship for two healthy heterosexual adults.

As I stood in the doorway, talking with Hooker, I glanced toward the terrace to confirm Barbara was still on the phone. She’d been looking at me, hoping to get my attention. I saw her confidential nod, as she held up a finger, eyes posing the question Can you give me a few minutes?

No problem.

Hooker noticed the exchange. He took out a cell phone, touched a button or two, then slipped it into his pocket. “This might be a good time.”

I said, “For what?”

He put his hand on my shoulder and leaned so he could say privately, “There’s a gentleman who would like to have a word with you.”

“Who?” I was unfolding the paper he had slipped into my hand. There was a key, too.

“It’s a room number. Just down the hall.”

“Do I know this person?”

Hooker replied, “I couldn’t say,” meaning exactly that.

The room was empty but the phone was ringing. It was my old boss, Harrington, the man who’d summoned me to New York.

When I recognized the voice, I said, “The gentleman who gave me the message. A new member of your staff?”

“No, just returning a favor. You sound irritated.”

I was, but it wasn’t because he’d used Hooker as a messenger. “I had a date tonight, but something pulled me away. Your people? I need the truth.”

Harrington said, “ Our people, you mean?”

“Depends on the answer.”

“Why do you think I called? You’re suspicious because of the timing. I would’ve been suspicious myself.”