Dead Silence Page 12

The way she’d looked up at him when he’d said it . . .

  He’d often found her blue eyes impossible to read, and that moment was no exception. But her mouth had quivered ever so slightly, like she’d been trying not to laugh. Or maybe cry, happy tears over his thoughtful gift.

  He reaches for a lavender pullover he’d bought to keep her warm when the bitter Canadian winter brought teeth-chattering drafts. Burying his face in the soft fleece, he breathes her essence.

  What have I done?

  It isn’t that she’s irreplaceable. In time, he’ll find a new angel.

  And he sure as hell won’t miss the boy, or the way those big blue eyes had stared every time he’d entered the room—not warily, as Monique’s had, but more intently, noting details. The way he’d sucked his thumb, making disgusting slurping noises.

  “Get him to stop that,” he’d warned Monique not long ago, in English. She’d been bilingual but had taught the boy only French.

  She claimed to have tried to break the child’s nasty habit, to no avail, and so he’d threatened to cut off the offending thumbs with his pocketknife.

  “Please, no!” she’d wailed. “Please, he’s just a baby.”

  “He’s not a baby. He’s a boy, and one day he’ll be a man.” He couldn’t stand the way she’d coddled her son, very much as Cecile does Pascal. It’s no way to raise a man.

  Better, then, for a boy to have had no mother at all?

  His jaw twitches, and he clenches it.

  Better, in Monique’s case, to have rid the mother of the boy. Why hadn’t he taken him away, destroyed him, early on, when those blue eyes of his started staring, glaring?

  Why, indeed? That would have been as foolish as tossing a flood insurance policy into a storm surge.

  He’d needed the boy as a means of controlling Monique.

  He can still hear her shriek the first time he’d ever snatched up her son and carried him from the room.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just moving him out here where he can’t disturb us. I can’t close the door, and we don’t need an audience.”

  It had been a clumsy solution. He could have locked the boy in the trunk of his car, he supposed. Or secured another room in the house where he could take Monique. But there was something powerful, oddly titillating, about enjoying his private time with her, while her child sat with his hands cuffed behind his back. What a pleasure to think that he couldn’t get his damned thumbs into his mouth in that position, to imagine him contorting himself in futile attempts.

  However, it seemed that the boy had never moved at all whenever he’d been left alone, had never tried to get away by dragging the rack so much as an inch toward the ladder. An imbecile, lacking basic self-preservation instinct. He wouldn’t have left his mother any more than she’d have left him . . .

  Ah, but she had, the other night.

  After the kid had swallowed the chocolate pudding and slumped over, the Angler had told Monique to get ready while he carried him downstairs and dumped him into the car trunk.

  She’d known where they were going, what was expected of her when they went out trolling for new girls. They were far more likely to trust him when they spotted a young woman smiling reassuringly from the passenger’s seat.

  Yes, Monique always smiled like she didn’t have a care in the world. He’d been convinced she wouldn’t dare do anything else.

  Stupid, stupid.

  Had she been planning, even as she’d dutifully put on makeup and gotten dressed for their evening out? He imagines her standing right over there, buttoning the silky blouse he’d told her to wear. When they’d first met, she’d told him lavender was her favorite color, and so all of the clothes he’d bought her were the same soft pastel shade. He’d been trying to make her happy, the ungrateful little bitch.

  He’d locked her into the car trunk along with her son, same as he always did when they were coming and going, so that she’d have no clue to the whereabouts of Hugo’s farm.

  There were a number of outbuildings out beyond the weathered red barn. He’d parked by the old henhouse. Inside, he’d been greeted by a familiar stench and flapping and fluttering from the flock along the nesting boxes and roosting rails. The wide plank floor was thick with straw and droppings. You wouldn’t see the iron ring unless you knew where to grab for it and lift the heavy trap door to reveal the nice deep root cellar beneath. Sometimes, as the Angler lowered him into it, the kid would stir to awareness and emit muffled screams behind the duct tape over his mouth. Not that time. He’d been out cold.

  Had something felt off? Had he missed something, some sign that tonight would be different? Had she been planning, still locked in the trunk as he’d driven on toward Montreal?

  He’d stopped on a deserted street just outside city limits to let her join him in the car. He’d reminded her, same as always, what would happen if she tried anything.

  “Make one stupid move, say one word to anyone, and your son will die. I’ll never tell you or anyone else where he is. Never, under any circumstances. And if anything happens to me, you’ll never find him. Where I have hidden him, no one will ever find him. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Behave, and you’ll have him back when we’re finished, same as always. Now let’s go catch and release.”

  That’s what he’d called their little missions.

  “It’s like fishing,” he’d told her in the beginning. “Put out a line and see what we can catch. Sometimes, I get lucky, and it’s a keeper, like you.”

  Except, when he’s fishing, he dutifully removes the hook from a forbidden species and returns the wriggling creature to the water. The girls aren’t swimming back to salvation when he’s finished with them.

  Monique had said she was hungry after he’d let her out of the trunk, so he’d stopped at a Tim Hortons. He should have used the drive-through, but he had to take a leak, so he’d left her in the car with the usual warnings.

  Now who’s the imbecile?

  He’d left her unsupervised, though, so many times in the past. He’d always found her docile and submissive in the passenger’s seat upon his return.

  This time had been different. When he’d returned a few minutes later with two coffees and a bag of doughnuts, she was gone.

  Stunned, heart pounding, he’d scanned the area. Would she have gone toward the road, or into the trees and undergrowth surrounding the empty parking lot? The road, he’d guessed, chilled at the thought of her flagging down a passing car for help.

  As he turned in that direction, his ears had picked up a faint rustling back by the dumpster. He’d whirled back, expecting to see a cat or raccoon. All had been still, but the overhead light cast an unmistakable human shadow across the pavement. He’d pulled out his pistol and stolen toward it.

  Expecting her to run, he’d been prepared to chase her into the tangle of foliage.

  But she was a wilted, spindly weed, rooted to the spot.

  “I’m sorry,” she’d whispered. “I don’t know what I was . . . I’m sorry. Please. I lost my head for a second there, I just didn’t think. I didn’t mean to—”

  He’d shut her up with a pistol whip across the jaw. She’d gone down without so much as a whimper. He’d thrown her back into the trunk and returned to the farm. When he’d let her out, she’d scanned the rural landscape, perhaps memorizing the location for future reference, just in case . . .

  Ah, but her future, at that point, could be measured in seconds. The devil that had gotten into her was gone. Her voice was small and hollow in the dark.

  Ignoring her pleas, he’d taken grim pleasure in silencing her.

  “Why?” he whispers into the empty room. “Why did you try to leave me? Why didn’t I realize you would do it?”

  Stupid. So stupid.

  He should have known. He’d spotted icy fissures in her blue eyes lately. When he’d visited, her energy had seemed different. Brazen, even reckless.

  She’d bee
n clenched with pent-up resentment, rage . . . a plan? Or had her digression been impulsive—a momentary lapse in judgment, a flicker of madness?

  How could she have thought that if she’d managed to escape, she’d find her way back to her son? She’d had no way of knowing where he was. Even if she’d somehow managed to keep track of the time it had taken to travel to the farm, she couldn’t know the direction or distance. He could have been anywhere within a three-hour radius of Ottawa.

  The only thing that makes sense is her maternal instinct had finally given way to self-preservation.

  He can only hope that his own reckless mistake won’t come back to haunt him.

  His life, after all, is built on lies, painstakingly layered and precariously stacked, one atop another, like the wooden blocks he and Uncle Hugo had carved that summer on the farm.

  If the tower falls, you lose . . .

  He could have, should have left the boy in the root cellar to rot like forgotten harvest. Yet he’d been worried that if remains had ever been found, they might be linked to Hugo’s DNA, and traced right back to him, the bloodline’s lone descendant.

  It had been far riskier to leave the corpse out there in the open, where someone might come along and find him before he’s unidentifiable.

  Again, he assures himself that there will be no incriminating evidence even then.

  A heap of dead flesh and bone in America will never link him to me.

  And even if the child were alive, even if he were capable of speaking—which he’d never proven—what could he possibly reveal that would lead the authorities in this direction?

  Monique herself had never seen the house or surrounding neighborhood, nor the farm. Nor had she ever even known his name. Still—

  His phone buzzes in his pocket with an incoming call. He pulls it out.

  Cecile . . . again?

  Frowning, he answers the call. “Yes?” Greeted with a torrent of French, he interrupts, “You know I hate that! Talk to me in English!”

  His father’s voice echoes in his head. Parle-moi en français!

  Only Monique had been allowed to converse with him in French. Her sweet accent had charmed him from the beginning.

  Again, Cecile blurts a rush of information, this time in English. He discerns only, “Pascal . . . very sick . . . tests . . . hospital.”

  He closes his eyes and tilts his head to the ceiling. Damn her. Couldn’t she have taken the boy to a pediatrician? She had to go to the hospital?

  He counts to three before asking, calmly, “What’s wrong with him?”

  “His stomach. We have been here for hours. I have been trying to reach you.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m at work. You know that.”

  A brief pause. “Oui. But the doctor said you should come. It is not good.”

  He sighs. “All right. I’ll come.”

  Hanging up, he turns abruptly to leave the room. His foot knocks the lamp in the doorway. It teeters, and he catches it before it topples out onto the attic floor. Close call, he thinks, shoving the lamp back out into the attic, stepping out of the room, and watching the door slam on its own.

  A block from the beach and several from the heart of town, Rob’s casa particular is a violet concrete box with splashes of red trim and slatted shutters on the open windows.

  It’s clean enough but smells faintly of mildew. Creaky metal ceiling fans push hot air around. The kitchen appliances are outdated, furnishings rudimentary, fabrics threadbare, electronics nonexistent. There’s one shared bathroom—tub, no shower. The largest of the three bedrooms—or more accurately, the least tiny—contains a double bed and goes to Rob. Kurtis is next door in a room that barely holds a twin bed and dresser. Barnes is down the hall in a sunny space with just a twin bed. He has to kneel on it to close the door, and the mattress is lumpy but serviceable. He sinks onto it and closes his eyes. Ah . . . peaceful solitude at last.

  He hears Rob leave, heading out to El Yunque.

  A few minutes later, Kurtis knocks on the door. “Hey, Uncle Stockton?”

  He sits up and opens it a crack. “Everything okay?”

  “I’m walking into town to grab lunch at that paladar my dad showed us on the way in.”

  Probably, Barnes thinks, because Rob had mentioned you can pick up Wi-Fi access in the nearby plaza. At least, he hopes that and maybe food are all he’s looking for. Rob had warned him, on the flight over from the US, not to touch drugs here in Cuba, where punishment is severe and lengthy. Kurtis had assured his father that he wouldn’t, but after the anxiety-ridden journey to Baracoa, a younger Barnes himself might have been tempted.

  “You want anything, Uncle Stockton?”

  He should probably eat, but he’s far more exhausted than he is hungry. “Just a bottle of water would be good, thanks, Kurtis.”

  “Sure thing.” He hesitates. “Do you, uh, have any money? They don’t take American Express anywhere down here, and I . . . forgot to ask my dad.”

  “Of course.” Barnes fishes some pesos out of his pocket and hands them over.

  “Thanks.” He shifts his weight. “Can you, uh, not tell—”

  “It’s our secret. Just be careful out there, okay?”

  “Don’t worry. I can take care of myself, no matter what my father thinks.”

  Barnes settles back onto the mattress.

  Maybe he should have taken that private moment to tell Kurtis he and Rob are lucky to have each other, and not to take that for granted. Yes, Rob can be stubborn and controlling, but Kurtis is impetuous and idealistic.

  He could have pointed out that Rob has been there from the start, stayed married to his mother, given him siblings, a luxurious home, a college education, everything money can buy.

  My father only gave me a fraction of that, and he was my hero.

  Yet there’s no telling what might have happened had Charles Barnes lived until they could be men together. Maybe they, too, would be fractious as rival tomcats.

  Barnes falls asleep to the sound of waves lapping and seabirds calling beyond a stand of banana fronds edging the back terrace. He awakens to the same, but long shadows now fall across the bed. He’s soaked in perspiration, and ferocious hunger gnaws his stomach like a shark on chum.

  He gets up, opens the door, and pads barefoot through the house, calling for Kurtis and Rob. The place is empty. So is his stomach. And the fridge. So much for the bottle of water Kurtis was supposed to bring.

  He eyes the faucet, tempted to forget the warnings and drink some. Is there a thirst more urgent than this, born of sweat, liquor, and vomiting?

  Throw diarrhea into the mix, and you’ll find out.

  He finds his flip-flops, sunglasses, and some cash, steps outside and remembers, belatedly, that Rob didn’t give him a key for the door. Or maybe there isn’t one?

  He thinks of his duffel bag sitting there on his bed with his cell phone, wallet, keys to his Manhattan apartment, and passport zipped inside. The phone, credit cards, and keys are useless here, and it seems wiser to leave his passport in his bag than to carry it with him through unfamiliar streets.

  But in an unlocked house? A hotel safe would be ideal. A hotel would be ideal, with locked doors and room service and pretty happy hour bartenders . . . though maybe he really should swear off women for a while. He isn’t attracted to the weak ones—the ones who want him to stay.

  And the ones who don’t—the strong ones—demand, and deserve, far better than the likes of him.

  He closes the door behind him and starts making his way on foot through the residential neighborhood. August in New York is downright brisk compared to this dense tropical heat. Mosquitos and gnats buzz around, nip at, and stick to his perspiration-slicked skin. After passing several shirtless men, Barnes takes off his own, uses it to mop himself, and drapes it around his neck like a gym towel.

  Ramshackle houses cluster on inclines and cram along narrow dirt lanes. Some are low and rectangular, a few two stories with double-decker porches. Most are
painted in a bright tropical palette, the flamboyant patchwork occasionally broken by monochromatic new concrete cinder-block construction or faded dilapidated relics.

  In the heart of town, he crosses the triangular Plaza Independencia, teeming with activity as day fades to evening. Locals lounge on benches, smoking and drinking, arguing and laughing as children and dogs romp freely. He sees a few people playing checkers, others dancing without inhibition. Scattered musicians pluck guitars, beat bongos, and shake maracas, creating a glorious unsynchronized harmony. Street vendors weave among obvious tourists, focused on their cell phones in this rare Wi-Fi hotspot. One approaches Barnes, carrying a stick dangling with ice cream cone–shaped palm frond packets—cucurucho, he explains in Spanish, a unique local delicacy. Barnes buys one and strolls on, devouring the concoction of sweetened coconut, tropical fruits, and nuts.

  Appetite raging, he locates the paladar Rob had pointed out—a lime-green shack tucked into a cobblestone courtyard in the shadow of an ancient church. About to pull his tee shirt back on, he notes that he and the waiter would be the only fully dressed men in the place.

  No shirt, no shoes? Apparently, no problem here. You want an authentic travel experience, you eat where the locals eat—and dine as they dine.

  Barnes takes a white molded plastic chair and table between a trio of elderly women arguing good-naturedly over pungent coffee and cigarettes, and a group of deeply tanned, shirtless men engaged in raucous conversation. At least ten minutes pass before a bearded young waiter strolls over with a basket of chicharrones.

  Barnes asks him in Spanish whether a young man of Kurtis’s description had been here earlier. The waiter shakes his head.

  Barnes requests a menu and bottled water and is informed the restaurant doesn’t have either of those things. Alrighty, then. “Tienes arroz con pollo y una botella de cerveza?”

  Ah, yes, that, they do have: “chicken and rice and a bottle of beer.”

  He’s not seeking hair of the dog or even a happy hour buzz, but when you’re parched and can’t drink the water, your safest bet is beer.

  He leans back, crunching the delicious fried pork rinds, and takes in the rutted street, clogged with bicycles, pedicabs, motorbikes, camiones, even a horse and cart. There are a few cars, too—sherbet-colored American throwbacks, though not as well maintained as they’d been around Havana. Clothing flutters from clotheslines strung between the houses. Wandering tourists are distinguishable by their backpacks and sneakers. The air is thick with humid brine, lively conversation, fried and roasted food. “Guantanamera” is, as always, playing somewhere, everywhere.