Silencer (31 page)

“Jonah,” she said. “He's the mean one.”

“What I think is, they strong-armed Gustavo, got him to the lodge. Jonah's holding the pistol, the three of them walk up, Saperstein stops them. Jonah nails him and keeps on shooting. Making a point for Gustavo, showing him how serious this is. Then he reloads, hands the
pistol to Gustavo, shoves him toward the front door. That's the film I got running in my head.”

“Not Browning?”

“Browning's inside with Antwan and the governor. They're looking over the map, figuring out their next move, how long it'll take before they can start drilling. Divvying up the profits. Doing it all in front of Earl. It must've broken the old man's heart.”

“I heard them hooting in there. Laughing like loons. Not Earl, but the others.”

Frisco nodded and blinked hard as if trying to erase the image.

“And Sanchez? He's in it, too?”

“What do you think?”

She considered it for a while, then said, “On the hunt yesterday, he wounded a wildebeest then claimed he was too tired to go after it. I grabbed the shotgun, and after I brought the animal down, he wanted his picture with the thing like it was his.”

“Which only proves he's a sack of shit.”

“Browning makes fun of him. Says he's dull normal. Like a trained seal.”

“Let's try this,” said Frisco. “Sanchez is an innocent third party. His job is to give the scene the stamp of approval. An eyewitness nobody questions.”

“Unless he's one hell of an actor,” Claire said, “the way he broke down after Earl was shot, that was real. He was in shock, he still looked that way getting on the chopper.”

“Yeah,” Frisco said. “He thinks he's coming to Coquina Ranch for the usual male bonding, drink some whiskey, maybe hear about a business venture, then boom, people die in front of him. A few hours later, back home at the governor's mansion, he thinks it over, he realizes he's been used. What does he do? Does he call the attorney general, his FDLE people? No, he shuts the investigation down, which tells me he got over his shock pretty quick and decided he wanted a
slice of the action. Maybe he was in it from the start, but at this point, it doesn't matter. Any way you cut it, everybody's hands are dirty. It's a daisy chain of guilt.”

“I don't know, Frisco. Why can't it be just what it looks like? Gustavo is sick, dying, angry at being fired, his family is evicted, and he does all this on his own.”

“You want to believe Browning is innocent. So do I. He's your husband, he's my brother.”

“I do. I want him to be innocent.”

“You saw the map, he denied it was there. That's not enough for you?”

“That map,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Does Browning know you got one, too? Your rite of passage.”

“I'm not sure, but I expect he does.”

“Then that whole thing, denying it was there, he's got to know you see through him.”

“He's daring me.”

“Daring you to expose him? Christ, you're a cop. He has to know you won't cut him any slack.”

“He's a cocky bastard, always has been. He knows the evidence is too slippery. There's nothing to hold on to. Where's the proof of anything?”

“Ana Pinto. Her mother and brothers. They know what happened.”

“A bunch of trailer-park Mexicans making wild claims against the governor and Browning Hammond? Justice may be blind, but it ain't that blind.”

She fiddled with the radio again, moving up and down the dial. Got a lot of Spanish, a religious lunatic, more static. She snapped it off and rearranged her long legs.

“The way Browning was at lunch today . . . I've never seen that man before.”

“The toothpick.”

“And the Bible verses, mocking Earl. I wanted to tear his eyes out.”

Frisco watched the lights of Clewiston appear in the distance.

They were quiet for a while, then she said, “In your version, Gustavo was supposed to shoot Earl, just get in his truck, drive down to Miami, and hide out. Live there for whatever time he had left.”

“That may be how they sold it to him,” Frisco said, “but no way could that work. By morning his face is on TV, his neighbors in the Grove recognize him, he's busted. Gustavo wasn't a sophisticated man. He'd lived out on the ranch all his life, he thought Miami was this big complicated city, he could just go there and disappear. He was being scammed, start to finish.”

“I knew something was wrong with him. He was avoiding me.”

“Hey, if somebody's at fault, it's me. I should've sat Earl down years ago, told him not to show that map to Browning. I saw this coming, or something like it. Browning's world view is pretty simple. If there's oil on the land, then by God, you pump out every drop. That's just what you do. Browning failed the loyalty test, and Earl couldn't accept it.”

Frisco glanced her way, but Claire was preoccupied with the seam on her jeans. Picking at it with a fingernail. He could smell the heat her body was giving off, a brew of scents, the dusty straw of the barn, the lather of horse and saddle oil, and whatever soap she'd used hours ago, something with vanilla. He kept his eyes on the highway shooting straight ahead into the night.

“For a long time I've felt like I was losing Browning,” she said. “That we were drifting apart.”

“I don't need to hear this.”

“Well, I need to say it, so shut up and indulge me.”

Frisco closed his mouth.

“Last summer just before she died, I went to Rachel Sue and told her I was worried about my marriage. I asked her if she had any idea how I could do a better job of pleasing Browning.”

“This should be good.”

“Pies. That's what she said. ‘My boy likes pies. Fruit pies are best—blueberry, apple, but pecan is good, too. With Browning, you can't go wrong with pies.' ”

Frisco chuckled. He looked over at her, but she was staring out her window.

“I never was any good with pies,” she said.

He turned his eyes to the road and reset his hands on the wheel. They rode in silence for several minutes, until Frisco's phone buzzed.

Claire lifted it, squinted at the screen. “You want to talk to Donaldson?”

“Not really.”

“You probably should.”

She handed him the phone. He let it ring a couple more times before he flipped it open.

“Okay,” Frisco said, “so what is it now?”

“Who is this?” a man's voice asked.

“Whoa,” Frisco said. “You first. You called me. That's how it works.”

The man was in a hurry, speaking fast but precisely.

“Somebody named Claire Hammond left a message on this cell phone. My name was mentioned in the message.”

“Is that right? And your name is what?”

“Thorn.”

“Thorn,” he said. “Okay. Put Donaldson on. Let me talk to her.”

“Donaldson is dead,” Thorn said.

Frisco looked over to Claire and said to Thorn, “She's dead?”

“Now listen to me. I'm lost somewhere on Coquina Ranch. I need directions. And I need them now. Can you help me or not?”

 

 

A WOMAN CAME ON THE
phone, said her name was Claire. She was taking over because Frisco needed to concentrate on driving.

“Now what's your situation, Mr. Thorn?”

Thorn told her his friends Rusty and Sugarman were being held at the lodge, and he believed they were in imminent danger.

“How do you know that?”

“I don't have time to explain. I need directions. I need them now.”

“Describe where you are. What do you see around you?”

He told her he was on a one-lane logging road with cattle gates every few hundred yards. Tall pines running along the edge of both shoulders.

“Is there a pond on your right or left?”

“I don't see one.”

“Keep driving.”

He drove another quarter of a mile, switching on the brights.

“Left. Up ahead, there's a pond, yeah.”

“Left?”

“Yeah, on the left.”

“Okay, that's Curry Lake. You're on Telegraph Grade Road. Turn around. Make a U-turn, you're going the wrong way.”

“Gas gauge is touching empty,” he said. “I need the most direct route. Even if it means ramming through the fence.”

“I'll get you there,” she said. “Stay calm.”

“How far away is the lodge?” Thorn said. “How long is this going to take?”

“From where you are,” Claire said, “maybe twenty minutes.”

“You know anything about texting?”

“What do you mean?” He could barely hear her voice over the violent squeaking of the Prius as it bounced across the rutted road.

“Text messages keep popping up on Jonah's phone. I think Antwan Shelton is getting suspicious.”

He heard Claire Hammond speaking to the driver, explaining the situation.

Thorn said, “Antwan keeps asking, ‘WTFUB?' Where the fuck am I?”

“Don't answer him,” Claire said. “We'll be at the lodge soon, before you can get there. The man you spoke to a minute ago, that's Frisco Hammond, he's a cop. He and I are going to take care of this.”

“I don't want Antwan to get nervous and make a run. Do you know texting or not?”

“Some,” she said.

“So give me something. I need something to keep him calm.”

Claire said, “Type ‘KC', that's ‘keep cool.' Then ‘TTFN.' ”

“What's that?”

“Ta-ta for now.”

“Is that something Jonah would say?”

“It's pretty standard.”

“I don't want to tip this guy off.”

“ ‘TTFN,' ” Claire said.

“I'm coming up to another gate,” Thorn said. “An intersection of some kind.”

“That's Possum Road. Open the gate, go through, take the left.”

“Am I still in the game preserve?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that would explain the five hundred buffalo standing in my way.”

“You got a gun?”

“I do.”

“Fire it in the air, they'll move.”

He honked his horn instead. Half the ammunition from the clip of the Mac-10 was already gone, the rounds Jonah fired into the kitchen wall. And by God, Thorn was not about to waste another shot until he had something a whole lot better than buffalo in his sights.

 

“ ‘TTFN'?” Antwan said. “ ‘TTFN'?”

He looked at Sugarman, looked again at his BlackBerry.

“Faust boys don't say ‘ta-ta.' I been back and forth with those two for years, and I never saw one ‘ta-ta.' Not one. I smell something here. I do believe we have some form of putrefaction.”

Antwan stared at Sugarman.

“Can't help you,” Sugar said. “My nose is all clogged.”

He was still in the wingback. Another tooth was loose. A molar on his lower right side. Damn, he hated the dentist. Hated the idea of a bridge. He wasn't sure if at his advanced age the molar would ever tighten up again, or if Antwan Shelton had loosened it for good. Either way, he was pissed. Beyond pissed.

But holding back because he could still hear Rusty and Browning Hammond going back and forth. Fairly civil, at least no obvious rancor, though it sounded like Browning was starting to get a whine in his voice. Complaining that no one took him seriously, everyone undermined him. People messing in his business.

Which wasn't a particularly good sign. Like he was building his case, lathering himself up about the unfairness of the world, giving him the right to strike back.

Sugarman scanned the room for the hundredth time, looking for
weapons. He hadn't ruled out going hand to hand with One-Ton, but only as a last resort. The guy had bulked up since his running-back days. Saddled himself with an extra fifty pounds, which meant he outweighed Sugarman by a hundred.

He made another sweep of the spacious room, decorated in a manly style, part library, part trophy room. Assorted lamps, wood carvings on the shelves, some family photographs, and a couple of paintings that showed different views of the pinelands. Books, vases, a gun case with steel bars. There were the animal heads on the wall. A fireplace, but he saw no poker or scoop, or any of the usual brass implements he might bash Antwan with.

He took a longer look at the animal heads. At the mounted antlers, the feral hog's thick yellowed tusks, the twisty horns of an antelope. They were hung low enough on the wall to reach, but it was a very long shot. Very long.

Browning strolled into the living room tugging Rusty with him. He had his right hand clamped to her arm just above the elbow. The pressure he was applying had stiffened Rusty's back and drained the color from her face.

“Hey.” Sugar rose from the chair. “Let her go.”

Antwan danced into view and crushed Sugarman's jaw with a right hand so hard the lights in the room flared and went dark and Sugar found himself sitting in the wingback chair again with a woozy warmth flooding his body.

“I told you, negro, mind your P's and Q's. Didn't I say that half a dozen times already? Didn't I give you ample warning? You not listening to the coach, brown sugar. Tighten that chin strap and stay the fuck still.”

Browning stood to one side, sucking on his gold toothpick, while he appraised Sugarman's damaged face with dreamy interest. Rusty flinched at the sight of him and started to speak, but Browning tightened his grip on her arm and she sucked in a gasp instead.

“You about finished, Brown?” Antwan said. “Get what you need, did you?”

“Call the Faust boys.”

“One step ahead of you, brother. They're on their way. Or somebody is.”

“Somebody?”

“Got a text from the Faust brothers. Didn't sound like the manner in which they usually communicate.”

“What're you saying? Somebody else has their phone? The cops?”