Dead Silence (33 page)

N
ine p.m. I battled the urge to rush as I drove the Range Rover south on U.S. 41 toward Venice Beach Road and Falcon Landing, governing my speed with cruise control and using the blinker to shift lanes. I didn’t know where Will Chaser was. Didn’t know if he was dead or alive, aboveground or below, and I was convinced Nelson Myles didn’t know either. But I now felt sure the boy was somewhere in Florida, probably close to Sarasota. It would be unwise to invite the attention of a traffic cop.

Myles hadn’t told me the whole truth—yet. But I believed him when he said he hadn’t seen the boy and didn’t know where he was. I did not believe him, however, when he said he didn’t know that he’d been helping the kidnappers. Too many holes in his story, too many headlines on the television news.

Myles said he didn’t know the men were Cuban until I told him. They had demanded money, transportation and shelter, no questions tolerated. That included questions about a crate the two men had off-loaded early that morning, after Myles landed them at Falcon Landing in his eleven-passenger Citation executive jet.

“They said they were smuggling illegal weapons. I didn’t ask what. Rocket launchers or an atomic bomb—my God, what do I care? My life was on the line. I didn’t even see their faces. That’s the truth. I didn’t want to see their faces!”

My opinion of the man continued its descent.

During the three-hour flight, Myles claimed he hadn’t opened the cockpit door. The only time he was face-to-face with the men was just before they boarded, but it was too dark to see details.

“The man I’d been dealing with, the one in charge, he was older. Late fifties, early sixties, and very neat. Silver hair, a collar that looked starched. The man with him was twice your size and three times as wide—freakish. He was younger, judging from his voice, in his twenties or early thirties. And he wore a weird knit cap. Pointed, sort of. I got the impression he wasn’t smart—retarded, even—just from the way the boss man spoke to him. But strong—my God, he handled that crate like it was filled with newspaper instead of—”

“Guns?” I chided.

“That’s what I thought,” he said. “I swear.”

All other contact was by cell phone, Myles told me, or over the Internet.

“The man told me how much money he wanted, where to be, what to do, and I did it. Anyone in my position would’ve done the same. These people have been bleeding me dry for more than two weeks and I’m sick of it! They have no idea how far out of their class they are, but they’ll find out one day. You, too. That’s not a threat. It’s a fact.”

“Poor Nelson,” I replied. “You’ve had it rough, all because of a girl who wasn’t in your class either.”

The man’s story meshed with the bank records I’d found at Shelter House and also with what I already suspected: an interrogator from the Cuban Program had discovered that a wealthy American was a murderer—a story he’d probably heard from an American POW. Torture a man long enough and he will spill his own personal secrets, then volunteer secrets about everyone he knows, hoping to earn a break from pain.

Myles hadn’t yet provided the connection—who was the POW?—but I had a pretty good idea who it was. So I was backing off, letting him get to it in his own way.

Because it was safer to talk in a moving car, I’d been driving for about twenty minutes, making random turns, but gradually traveling southwest toward the Gulf of Mexico and Falcon Landing. Myles tried subtle manipulation to hurry me back to his gated community, implying he might talk more freely when he was close to home. I thought I understood his motivation. But I badly misread his intent.

I stopped only once. Got out of the car, so Myles couldn’t eavesdrop, and telephoned Barbara, then Harrington, finally Tomlinson. No one answered, so I left the same message: “The boy’s in Florida, possibly Sarasota County. Tell the FBI and anyone else who can help. I’m right this time,
trust
me.”

My determination to find Will Chaser was now fueled by an additional source: my systematic humiliation of Nelson Myles. I’m no actor. A bully within me had surfaced, and the realization added yet another blemish to my already-tattered self-image. The only justification now was finding the boy.

The better I got to know my victim, however, the easier it was to rationalize. Myles possessed a mountainous ego that didn’t leave room for a conscience, or a heart, or people of value in his tiny, privileged world.

Now it was 9:15 p.m. Traffic was busy on Palmetto Road, as I turned south and crossed Bee Ridge. I was listening to Myles once again attempt to justify murdering a thirteen-year-old girl the summer of his senior year at Yale.

“She was a tease—you can ask anyone who knew Annie. Thirteen going on twenty-one, you’ve met the type. I was just a kid myself. Drunk, and I’d smoked grass, and it was the first time I’d ever snorted coke. I was celebrating because I’d been accepted into a very elite fraternity. Next morning, I couldn’t remember anything. Don’t expect me to remember every detail now.”

“Don’t expect me not to expect,” I said.

“It’s a manner of speech. I’m trying to explain how it happened. Little bits and pieces flash back, but never in order, so I’ve got to stitch it together even for me to understand. It was night, and I was on the beach alone. I’d been at a party and got too drunk, but I was smart enough to leave. The party was getting dangerous: a bunch of locals with an attitude had showed up. So I took a bucket of balls and a golf club down to the beach to hit a few while I sobered up.

“A driver?” I said.

He thought for a moment. “No, an iron. A seven iron.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

I was picturing the golf bag I’d seen in Norvin Tomlinson’s room, as he told me, “Next thing I remember, Annie was standing in front me. This was in June, a warm night. She’d just gotten out of the water. She was wearing a white T-shirt, no bra, and bikini shorts. How would you react?”

I didn’t answer. There was a stoplight ahead and I wanted to time it right. I’d used the master switch to lock all the doors but wasn’t certain there was an override on the passenger side. If I slowed to a stop, he might try to jump.

“Women never do that sort of thing accidentally,” he said. “I don’t care if they’re thirteen or thirty.” The man buried has face in his hands and made a groaning sound. “My God . . . there ought to be a law.”

I said, “There
is,
” not hiding my contempt.

“But the girl started it! She wanted me to make a pass at her. When I finally did, though, she laughed and ran, so I threw the goddamn club . . . like a joke, you know, to scare her. It’s what kids that age do. Jesus!”

“Twenty-one years old,” I said, “and still a boy.”

He missed the sarcasm. “
Exactly
. I didn’t mean to hurt her. But she turned her head and the club hit her in the eye. I got scared. Even she didn’t realize how bad it was. There was a lot of blood and I panicked. Anyone would’ve freaked out in that situation. Plus, I had my family’s reputation to protect. Father was about to be named ambassador to—”

I said, “Nelson!” He was on a talking jag and didn’t hear me. “Myles!” When he was listening, I said, “What’s par for killing a girl? How many strokes? After the second time you hit her, you claim she called you a name. What did she do to deserve it the third time? The fourth?”

“You don’t understand how it was.”

I said, “You’re goddamn right I don’t understand.”

Myles looked out the window and rubbed his swollen ear. “I’m getting sick of your questions.”

“Try a dose of truth. It might help.”

“I’ve told you everything I remember. It was a long time ago. The boy who was on the beach that night doesn’t even exist. I’m not responsible,
he
was responsible. I’m a different person now.”

I said, “Prove it. The girl’s dead, but maybe you can help me save the boy. Find him alive, it’ll earn you points with the jury.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t know anything about the kid. I told you about Annie. Why wouldn’t I tell you where the boy is?”

“Maybe you know more than you think. The Cuban could’ve said something that meant nothing to you but might make sense to me.”

“Really? You’re that much smarter? I find that unlikely. Know what I think?” I waited. “I think you know more than you’re admitting. Why are you so sure the man is Cuban? You expect me to talk but don’t share anything.”

I replied patiently, “Tell me the story again. Start at the beginning—every detail.”

He groaned. “Just take me home. I feel like I’m going to vomit. And I need a shower. I’ve never felt so filthy in my life. Take me back to Falcon Landing, maybe I’ll feel better. We can talk there.”

It was a typical reaction for an assault victim. It was also a symptom. The rich man’s brain was reassembling his self-image, piece by piece, as he transitioned through predictable stages. He had been apologetic, then ingratiating. Pride, indignation and anger would reboot next. Myles would become increasingly contentious or closemouthed. I had to short-circuit that process. There was more I wanted to know.

I shifted lanes, looking for a place to turn around, then flicked the turn signal.

“What are you doing?”

I said, “Taking you back.”

“Not to that goddamn dirt road!”

“I should’ve done what they hired me to do.”

Myles slapped the dash, then leaned his head on his forearms. “Jesus Christ! Haven’t I been through enough? It would be easier if you asked questions. Instead, you just sit there hardly saying a word. You do it on purpose. You know it drives me crazy.”

I said, “When you stack the lies high enough, they’ll implode. That’s when I ask questions.”

“Go to hell,” he said, but got serious when he realized I was still slowing to turn.

“
Jesus!
Okay, I’ll tell the story again. But who the hell do you think you are, treating me this way? Do you have any idea who I am?”

I said, “Let me guess: You’re rich and you know a lot of powerful people.”

“An understatement. You have no idea.”

“Guys like you,” I said, baiting him, “you’re all the same. You lie to feel important. Next, you’ll start bragging about all the sports stars and famous politicians you know. Buddies from some yacht club or some rich-kid fraternity who can bury me if you just say the word.” My tone told him
Bullshit,
but I didn’t hit it too hard. I wanted him to talk about Skull and Bones.

Myles said, “If I told you how many senators and presidents that’re in my fraternity, you wouldn’t believe me.”

I replied, “Then don’t bother.”

He was shaking his head, letting me know how dense I was. “My beach house where you jumped me? Three neighbors are from the same fraternity. One’s a federal judge, one’s on the board of the International Bank and the other’s a leading member of Congress. That’s who you’re dealing with. Now do you understand?”

I asked, “A congressman? What’s the name?’ ”

His reply was a snorting noise of refusal.

“Fraternity boys,” I said, “secret handshakes and drinking songs. Big deal.

Nels,
you’re
the guy who’s going to start at the beginning of the story and not stop until you get to the end.”

He made a blowing sound of frustration, his temper rallying, but he did what I told him to do. This time, he added a few key details.

 

 

 

Two weeks before, Myles had received the first of several anonymous phone calls. Adult male, Spanish accent: the Cuban interrogator. The Cuban claimed he knew what had happened to Annie Sylvester. Then he proved it by providing details that couldn’t have been gathered from an old police report.

The Cuban demanded that Myles send him a quarter million dollars U.S., converted into euros, to a Havana address through DSL, an international carrier. He wanted the money sent in three separate packages to increase the odds of at least one package arriving. If Myles didn’t cooperate, the Cuban told him, he would send a letter telling police exactly where to find the girl’s body.

“He told me I would never hear from him again if I paid,” Myles said in a monotone to let me know how tiresome this was. “But I’m not stupid. I’ve been through it before and I knew he’d want more. But I assumed it would be money, not helping him commit a felony.”

We were on East Venice Road, a quiet four-lane lined with sable palms. Manatee Civic Center and Desoto Square Mall were to the north, the entrance to Falcon Landing only a few miles away.

“You’re almost home,” I told him. “Keep talking.”

Five days ago, Myles continued, on January twentieth—two days before the kidnapping—the Cuban telephoned again. This time, it was from a pay phone in the United States, a 305 area code—Miami. Myles said he’d checked.

The Cuban said that he and a couple of friends would be arriving on Long Island—at Shelter Point Stables—in two days. They had purchased a crate of illegal weapons and had found a buyer, but the timing had to be right. Because there was a chance the boat they were meeting might not show, the Cuban told Myles he wanted a pit dug where he could cache the weapons until later. He also told him to have his plane fueled and ready in case they needed to fly out fast.

The pit the Cuban ordered dug was to be six by eight feet and six feet deep—Will Chaser’s grave. When Myles told him it would draw less attention if the pit was big enough for a horse, the man said that would be okay.

“By then,” Myles said, “I think he was already worried about how they were going to get out of the country. It was just a feeling I had. His English wasn’t great, but he mentioned me being a pilot often enough to make me suspicious. But I didn’t want to do anything to piss him off, so I humored him. You know, so he would trust me. Digging the hole he wanted was no problem.

“We had an old gelding that had to be put down, so I told my stable manager to schedule a backhoe. I told him to have our contractor dig two holes on the far side of the pasture.”