There was a knock on the door. DeJuan swung it open and came in the room. “Nighty-night,” he said, “and don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
Celeste saw him stare at her like a hungry dog. She picked up a pillow and held it up to her chest.
Teddy said, “What the hell you think you’re doing? We got people undressed in here.”
“You don’t want visitors, lock your door.”
“You check on the kid?”
DeJuan said, “Little man tucked in all cunchkey.”
He turned, walked out and closed the door.
Teddy said, “That bother you, him walking in seeing your taters?”
Celeste said, “Not too much. My dad would be loading a shotgun right now.”
Teddy said, “Then it’s a good thing he ain’t here.”
Celeste said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you-what kind a name is DeJuan? It doesn’t sound like a jig name, sounds more like a character in a Star Wars movie. Hey, maybe he’s really a space jig, come down from the cosmos to observe the ways of us white earth people.”
Teddy said, “He didn’t come from the cosmos. He come from the west side of Detroit. His given name’s DeJuan Green. Think you can put your prejudice aside and work with him?” Teddy grinned. “That’s not going to piss off the cosmic being or your warrior kinfolk, is it?”
Luke didn’t have anyone to blame but himself. He shouldn’t have come back up north. He shouldn’t have yelled at his mom. He didn’t know if she and Jack had slept together. It sure looked like it. But if his mom said it didn’t happen, he believed her, contrary to what he’d said earlier. He felt like everything he’d done the past seven months was wrong-one mistake after another-like he was being controlled by someone else. He knew it made no sense, but that’s what it felt like.
Luke was grateful for one thing. He talked to his dad and felt better about things, as Del Keane had said he would. He remembered looking up at the canopy, sunlight angling through the trees. It was mystical, like a scene from Lord of the Rings.
He said what was on his mind. Told his dad about seeing the first buck and how his hands shook and he couldn’t breathe. He told his dad how dumb he felt and how sorry he was, and how he wished he could replay it, try it again.
It was strange. When he finished saying what he had to say, he felt relieved. Felt a sense of calm, like his mom’s Land Rover had been lifted off him. He also remembered having a strange sense that someone was out there watching him. He turned a bunch of times, looking around, but didn’t see anyone.
He walked to the edge of the woods, looked out at the cornfield where he left his dad, saw him alive for the last time. He thought about walking into the field and finding the exact spot, but what good what it do? What purpose would it serve? He’d reconciled his feelings and that was enough.
He could see the farm in the distance. He remembered the farmer, a big man with beard stubble, wearing a beat-up old blue parka and a grease-stained cap with a bent brim that said cat diesel on the front. He hadn’t said much or changed his expression when Luke told him what had happened, but the man came through. Luke’s mom sent him a check for a thousand dollars thanking him for his help, and the farmer sent it back, saying he didn’t deserve to get paid for doing the right thing. Which had a lot more impact when Luke heard his farm was going under; the man could barely make ends meet.
Luke walked back in the woods. He was going to the lodge to apologize to his mother-not only for what he’d said earlier but for the way he’d been acting since his dad died.
He saw something move on the ridge above him-a man in green camo-coming down the hill toward him. What was strange, he was dressed like a hunter, but he wasn’t carrying a rifle or a bow. Something wasn’t right.
Luke changed direction, started walking fast, moving away from him. He saw the second guy through the trees about thirty feet ahead. He was a black guy dressed in a gold tracksuit like Eminem wore. He looked out of place, lost.
Luke turned and ran for the cornfield about fifty yards away. He remembered being timed for the fifty-yard dash in gym class. The world record was 5.15 (Ben Johnson) and he’d run a 6.8. He looked over his shoulder and saw the two men running, closing in on him, and now a car appeared, a green-and-white 1970 Z28 Camaro driving up on the two-track road in front of him, cutting him off. It looked like same car Bill Wink pulled over the night before- unless there were two identical green Z28s with white racing stripes tooling around the Leelanau Peninsula.
He had to slow down to get around the car and that’s when the black guy caught him, tackled him, took him down hard. Luke kicked the guy away from him, struggling to his feet, and that’s when Camo ran up and hit him in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. Luke went down, trying to draw a breath.
Camo said to the black guy, “Nice of you to show up. Where the fuck you been? I’ve been tracking this little asshole going on two hours.”
The black guy was rubbing a dirt stain on the knee of his track pants. He looked at Camo and said, “Want to know where we been? Been trying to find the road-that’s where we been.”
The girl said, “He’s right, we couldn’t find it.”
Camo said, “You taking his side over me?”
“I’m not taking anybody’s side,” the girl said. “I’m telling you what happened.”
“I said, take the two-track till it dead-ends. What’s hard about that?”
“Got to be able to find the motherfucker to take it. We be like, is he fucking with us or what?”
The girl had a roll of duct tape in her hands. She said, “Think we could settle this later? Get the kid out of here before somebody comes looking for him?”
She had brown hair and pure white skin, a girl who was too good-looking to be involved in something like this. She handed the tape roll to Camo, pulled a long piece, and tore it off. She told Luke to get on his stomach-said it with authority, like she was used to telling people what to do. She taped his feet together, got another piece and taped his hands behind his back.
Camo and the black guy picked him up and put him in the trunk of the Camaro, wedged in between the spare and a toolbox. There wasn’t a lot of room.
Camo said, “You just lie there, don’t make a fucking peep.” He slammed the trunk lid closed.
Luke bounced around as the Camaro moved along the uneven two-track road, tools rattling in the toolbox, the thick smell of exhaust making it difficult to breathe. He was on his side, facing in, arms behind him. He tried to find a more comfortable position, but he couldn’t move. It was better when they turned on Kinnikinnik Road, the ride smoother on asphalt. He could hear the throaty rumble of the high-performance engine as the Camaro accelerated.
A few minutes later they stopped and he could hear voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying. The trunk opened with a flood of light, Luke’s eyes squinting and Camo, in his southern accent, said, “That’s all you get. Just a peek.” And dropped the lid closed. It sounded like Camo was showing him to someone. So there were four of them. Then he heard them arguing, then fighting. Loud voices. Then a few minutes later they were back in the car, moving again. He wondered if they’d contacted his mother and how much they were asking for him. Camo finally told him.
He said, “I hope your momma loves you, boy. Think you’re worth two million dollars? You better hope so.”
He’d finally fallen asleep as the sun was starting to rise and woke up a few hours later to the sound of the TV. He could hear it on in the next room, a Road Runner cartoon. He could hear the Road Runner say “Beep, Beep” and hear Camo’s strange high-pitched laugh-not the kind of laugh you’d expect, the way he talked with that southern nasal twang he had.
Camo loved cartoons: Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Elmer Fudd, Marvin the Martian, he watched them all. It was the third morning Luke had woken up to the man laughing, which seemed odd,’ cause he was such a mean person.
Now Luke worked on the eyebolt they’d screwed into the floor, trying to loosen i
t. If he could unscrew it, he could open the bedroom window and take off. He heard the black guy say they were at the Timber Lake Cottages. He’d never been here before but had seen billboards advertising them. They were in Northport, woods behind the cottages. All he had to do was get in the trees, they’d never find him.
He took his belt off and slid the skinny metal piece that was part of the buckle-he thought it was called the clasp-through the ring of the eyebolt, gripped it hard, using the buckle for leverage and tried to turn the screw till his hand hurt. They’d torqued it down hard. He tried it again, pressing the clasp and buckle together till his fingers were numb.
He heard Camo laugh again in the other room and it made him mad and he used his other hand now, gripping the clasp and pinching the buckle like it was a wrench, his hand in pain, and when he was just about to give up he felt the eyebolt turn.
TWENTY — ONE
A couple days earlier DeJuan said to Jack, “Yo, welcome back to the famous Timber Lake Cottages. Been thinking. I see timber, don’t see no lake. Theo, where the water at?”
Celeste and Teddy were getting out of the Camaro.
Teddy said, “How do I know?”
Like it was a real question. DeJuan believed, was dogs smarter than Teddy. Maybe not a street mutt, but for sure a Doberman or a purebred poodle. He was thinking of an experiment: switch Teddy’s brain with a poodle’s, see how much smarter he got. Get invited on Letterman and such, bring Teddy out on a leash. “My dawg, check him out.”
He liked fucking with Teddy but really wanted to fuck his girl, fine creamy-skinned bitch with tats all over her pale white perfect body-ugly ones, graphic dark-blue shapes like she belonged to a cult. Had a big motherfucker on her back. Wasn’t just a tat, was a scene-crazy, too. Bitch posing at the entrance to a cemetery, pumpkins lining an iron fence-huh? The tats hidden under her clothes. Never expect it, looking at her. He was peeking in their room through a crack in the door, saw her coming out of the bathroom naked, bitty little shaved muff like a mustache down there and a nice-sized pair of naturals with pink nipples. Lord God. That’s all he could think of now. Couldn’t get that vision out of his head. Girl had a profound effect on him.
DeJuan was on the porch of his cottage-kicking back in a green metal chair with rusted legs, cleaning his gun, his Sig. He said, “Where the kid at?”
Teddy nodded at the trunk.
“Just going to leave him?”
There were nine cottages that had seen better days-grouped together in threes, separated by stands of birch and cedar-spread out across a couple of acres. They’d rented the last three units: seven, eight and nine, only people staying there. Manager lived in Suttons Bay, said to call if they needed anything.
Jack ducked in his cottage while Teddy and Celeste lifted the kid out of the car. Jack saying he never wanted the mom or kid knowing he was involved. He was the hero-going to come back, keep momma cool till they got the money.
Teddy was walking the little dude to the cottage, stuck his foot out and tripped him. The kid, hands taped behind his back, went down. Sadistic motherfucker grinned, enjoying himself. Man had some strange ways about him.
He said, “Hey, rich kid, watch where you’re going. You got to be more careful.”
Teddy squatted and pulled the kid to his feet and walked him to the middle cottage where they cuffed his hands to a chain bolted to the floor. The chain long enough to stretch to a log bed against the far wall of the room and to the adjoining bathroom-his own crib.
Teddy came out of his cottage and said to DeJuan, “Hey, you leave the ransom note?”
DeJuan opened his eyes big, gave him a surprised look. Said, “Shit, I forgot.”
Teddy said, “Godammit, do I got to do everything?”
DeJuan looked at him and said, “One thing you never have to worry about is this motherfucker doing his job. I’m reliable like FedEx, understand?”
If DeJuan hadn’t told Teddy they needed a ransom note, it never would’ve come up. Hick moron took credit for it, thought it was his idea. DeJuan had modeled the note-the style, anyway-after the one in Dirty Harry, one the psycho sent to the police telling them he had the girl and they had twenty-four hours to deliver the money, the ransom. Words from the newspaper cut out and glued on a piece of paper.
Jack saw it and said, “What’s that for? You don’t need a ransom note, you make a phone call.”
DeJuan had seen a lot of movies and believed this was how it was done. There were rules for certain things and you had to follow them. You kidnap someone, his family expect a note. That’s how it worked.
When he made the phone call, he put his Fubu over the cell, voice coming out all garbled and such, couldn’t tell if he was a southern Illinois sheep-banging bigot or a west Detroit black-power racist.
He got the idea of cutting the kid’s finger or ear off reading about J. Paul Getty’s grandson was kidnapped by Italian terrorists; J. Paul himself worth over a billion at the time. Kidnappers cut the grandson ear off, sent it to his moms. Mail come, there’s a bloody ear in an envelope. That would get your attention, no doubt. He was thinking, no matter what you did it was all about details-mix in a little fact and fiction for dramatic effect.
Now they were waiting for Jack to do his thing.
Bill Wink was working a day shift. He drove out to McCall’s and took a look around. He wanted to make sure the place was locked up and nobody was trying to rob it or vandalize it. He parked on the gravel drive, looked in the front windows. He walked around back, checked the doors and windows-everything locked up tight. He thought he heard a dog bark inside. Looked in the picture window in the big room, didn’t see anyone, person or dog. Maybe he was hearing things-the wind, maybe.
That whole thing about Luke was strange. Taking a bus didn’t wash, either. Taking a bus from where? He’d have to have gotten to Traverse City and how’d he do that? Something wasn’t right. It didn’t make sense. Unless Kate was making the whole thing up-hiding the fact that Luke really was kidnapped. He also considered the possibility that he was overreacting, his cop’s mind looking for a crime where none existed.
He scanned the tree line, spotted the big maple with its high plume of leaves, the tree stand still attached about fifty feet up. He’d run the name Theodore Monroe Hicks on NCIC, found out he’d been arrested five times: robbery armed, grand theft auto twice, assault with intent and a DUI, his only conviction. This Theodore Hicks was a bad dude. Bill read a brief description of each of the charges. Under assault, it said he hit a man named Owen McCall with an impact wrench and broke his collarbone, Mr. McCall refusing to press charges. There, finally, was a connection. But, what did it mean? What was this Teddy Hicks up to now? He did an all-points on the Camaro Z28, but nothing had come up in the past twenty-four hours. Maybe Teddy had taken off, left the county, but Bill doubted it.
He walked down to the end of the yard, stood on the bluff looking out at the water and down the beach, deserted in both directions, not a soul for as far as he could see. He thought about Kate now, pictured himself having dinner with her, a romantic setting, looking out at the moonlit bay, drinking wine, talking and having fun.
Girls had told him he was nice-looking and he sure had a lot of interesting stories involving police work. He once saved a kitten from a burning building-girls loved that one. And he delivered a baby in the front seat of a pickup truck. That was another one that generated a lot of interest. Seeing that baby’s head pop out of her-Jesus H. Christ-was something he’d never forget. The new mother was so grateful, she named the baby after him: Bill. Bill Cline. Telling these stories made girls think he was caring and sensitive and had gotten him laid more than a few times. He ended up marrying one of them, a farm girl with big knockers, named Artha.
When he met her he’d said, “I’ve never heard of Artha before. What kind of name is that?”
She said, “Martha without the M.”
That became her nickname. He’d say, “How you doing, Martha without the M?” She
’d giggle and her giant breasts would shake and heave.
The marriage ended after fifteen months, when Artha came home unexpectedly one day and found Bill in bed with a cute little court reporter named Tammi. Artha chased her through the trailer with a butcher knife and then outside and down the highway, Tammi naked, running with her clothes and purse under her arm.
The next day, when Bill was at work, Artha pulled the queen-size mattress off the bed, dragged it out in the yard and doused it with gasoline. She’d torched it along with all Bill’s clothes-every goddamn thing except his spare uniform. He considered having her arrested but decided to let it slide. If that got the anger out of her system, maybe it was worth it.
Next time Kate came back up, he was going to make his move. He looked out at the water and down the beach. He didn’t want to get ahead of himself, but he could see himself marrying Kate one day and living here. It was more than a feeling he had. He actually believed it was going to happen and it gave him confidence.
On his way to Leland, he told John Mitchell he’d stop and check on the cottages. He’d run into Mitchell the night before, having a beer at the Bluebird Bar, Mitchell saying he’d rented three units to this oddball group, said they was from Dee-troit. Said they was going to do some fishing but didn’t have any equipment.
“That isn’t a crime,” Bill said. “What do you think they’re doing out there?”
“That’s a good question,” Mitchell said. “I don’t know. I’m just glad to have their money, that’s all I can tell you.”
“Want me to check ’em out, make sure the cottages are still standing?”
“If it ain’t too much trouble,” Mitchell said.
DeJuan was on his Mac G5 with the wireless Internet connection, checking out St. Tropez, his next destination. Looking at shots of the beautiful people on they yachts. Saw Jay Z and Beyonce. P. Diddy dressed all in white, two hoes competing for his attention. DeJuan imaging himself in the music business, start his own label-Murder Dawg Records-like that. Have the capital to do it now.
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