“And,” she said, “that’s all I can tell you right now.” Her tone became more formal. “Besides, I thought you called to ask for a favor, not chat about the files. We’re busy here, you know.”
The woman was maddening.
I started to say, “You’re the one who went off on a tangent,” but dropped it, saying instead, “Okay, fine. I need transportation to Florida… Sarasota, ideally. What can you do for me?”
“I thought you agreed to stop pestering Mr. Myles.”
“No, you suggested it. I didn’t agree.”
“But you expect me to back you? After the hoops you made me jump through to exhume those two dead horses? Waking up judges, calling in favors-for what? And you’re still not convinced!”
I started to say, “You’ve got to trust my judgment on this-”
“I want you to stay away from Nelson Myles,” she interrupted. “The man has been patient so far, but you will put both of us in a dangerous position if you keep pushing. On nothing but a hunch? I’m sorry.”
I said, “Dangerous legal position?”
“Yes! But also in terms of public opinion.”
“Public opinion,” I said. “Is that code for getting reelected?”
“Don’t get smart, Dr. Ford.”
“One of us needs to. What happened, Barb? Why are you suddenly scared of Nelson Myles?”
“Power, that’s why,” she said. “It doesn’t scare me, but I respect it. Let’s don’t even get into the damage it could cause to some of my working relationships. But if I doubled my fund-raising schedule starting today, I still couldn’t compete with the kind of money Myles and his friends have. Even if I had ten years left in my term, instead of only two. Plus-and this is the absolute goddamn truth-I respect the opinions of colleagues who know the man.”
I was tempted to say, “ Respect -another political euphemism for power?,” but instead I asked, “Are some of your colleagues Yale graduates? Members of Skull and Bones maybe?”
“The fraternity? What does it matter? The point is, all I care about is getting the boy back alive, and you’re wasting time.”
I said, “If you’ve made up your mind, there’s nothing I can do. I’m open to suggestions.” I was going to Sarasota no matter what, but why tell Barbara and risk putting the man on alert?
“Doc,” she said, “I value our friendship.” There was nothing phony about the way she said it, but I didn’t reply.
“The best thing for you to do-for both of us, in fact-is to stay close to me. I need your moral support more than anything, so let’s let the FBI handle it, okay? I can’t sleep, I’m a ball of nerves.” She let that settle, then added,
“You’re maybe the only man in the world who really understands how hard it is for me to relax.”
Nothing phony about that either, nor was there any bawdy subtext. The woman was in trouble, isolated by her own office as much as by the anxiety associated with the kidnapping. That fast, I liked her again.
I said, “How about this? I’ll go home from here, spend a few days, then we can get together after this is done.”
Her reply surprised me. “How far is Busch Gardens from Sanibel, a couple of hours? Could we meet there tomorrow night?”
“What?”
“I wanted to fly Mr. and Mrs. Guttersen into D.C. at my expense. You know, to be near them until this is over, but Dan O’Connell beat me to it by inviting them to tour Busch Gardens. His family has a winter home near there.”
She added, “The Guttersens are meeting him in Tampa tonight-both of them, hopefully, if Ruth isn’t coming down with the flu. It will be good for all of us, to see this thing through together. Plus the military base at Tampa is our primary intelligence center. It can’t hurt to be within driving distance.”
“Senator Dan O’Connell?” I said.
“From Minnesota. He was the friend who asked me to meet William at the airport and take him to the UN. Dan’s got a place on the beach, a house and a couple of guest cottages. I won’t stay with him, I’ll book a suite of rooms nearby. My staff will communicate by phone and Internet. Can you meet me there?”
My brain was scanning for a way to work it to my advantage. I needed a reason why I had to return to Florida this afternoon, not tomorrow. I said, “I’d love to see you, but I’ve got so much catching up to do at my lab. But… if I could find a faster way home to Sanibel-”
“You’re doing it again, trying to manipulate me,” she interrupted. “I’ve made the offer. I need you, Doc. But you’ll have to fly commercial just like everyone else. If you change planes in Atlanta, you might run into the Guttersens. Otto Guttersen is a real character, Dan told me. A military background, a real tough guy… You two would hit it off.”
I was trying to picture the ex-pro wrestler Outlaw Bull Guttersen plowing his wheelchair through sand on some Gulf beach, as Barbara added, “Dan was just here, that’s why I had to call you back. Mr. Guttersen has been through some really bad times in his life, but nothing’s hit him like this.”
I said, “I was surprised by how emotional he sounded on the phone,” still scanning for a way to finagle a special flight. If I flew out of JFK by three, I could be in Florida by dusk.
“It would mean a lot to me, Doc, if you were there. It would be good for the Guttersens, too. Give Mr. Guttersen someone to talk to. In Florida, at least, he and his wife can get outside instead of sitting around going stir-crazy waiting for news. Dan told me it’s been freezing cold up there. Something like fifteen below in Minneapolis… not counting windchill.”
23
Over the hours, Will dozed, he reminisced, he raged and cried, and occasionally slept, but never for long because he was awakened by nightmares.
Sometimes, Will imagined that his box was moving. Or possibly it did move, although never very much. The boy couldn’t be sure because his dreams, his thoughts, his memories were all so tangled by the relentless darkness and the drug Ketamine that was still filtering through his veins.
Hours ago, Will had quit fighting his insistent bladder and decided to piss his jeans whenever he needed. For a time, pissing became his primary recreation, counting in his head to see how long he could keep the stream going. Now his jeans were sodden, but his body was empty of fluids.
Because he was thirsty, it was pleasurable-for a while anyway-to imagine himself diving into a glacial lake and drinking his fill of water that was crystalline blue like a Minnesota sky.
But Will had stopped doing that because it made him even thirstier, and also because it was so damn cold inside the box. Freezing, in fact. And Will began to suspect that Buffalo-head had carried out his threat.
How would you like to be buried in the cold, cold earth?
Now, mumbling through the tape on his mouth, Will barked a reply, “I wouldn’t like it worth a damn, you creep.”
My God, he was cold! No wind. No light. Maybe the bastards really had buried him!
As he pondered that, Will became aware of a red-tinted darkness blooming behind his eyes, but he stopped it, thinking, Don’t… Don’t, terrified of the insanity that threatened from just beyond the limits of his own anger.
It was safer to focus on how cold he was rather than the heat attempting to fire his temper, so Will moved his thoughts there.
Colder than a nun at a prison rodeo. Colder than a well-digger’s ass. Colder than Custer’s nuts! Colder than… Colder than… Well, it’s no colder than downtown Minneapolis in January, with snow falling.
One below-not counting windchill.
Bull Guttersen’s line. The man claimed to be seriously thinking of putting it on his tombstone-if no one had used it first, of course. He was a stickler about originality. Intellectual property, he called it, and he had confided to Will that the wrestling characters he’d invented, Outlaw Bull Gutter or Sheriff Bull Gutter, might one day make them all wealthy.
“Just you watch,” the man had said. “When Hollywood finally gets hold of its senses and stops making them candy-ass, cartoon-robot shoot-’em-ups, they’ll snoop around for a new hero until they sniff gold. Never been two finer intellectual properties created than Outlaw Bull and Sheriff Bull, so I expect we’ll cash in before I die.”