The Keepers

by Jeffrey B. Burton

“The café?” Kippy said.

  “Café on the Park,” Large Slurpee replied, holding his treats and motioning at the street outside with his chin. “Just down Main, you can’t miss it.”

  It turned out Large Slurpee was right. The staff at Café on the Park was a bit more literary than those at the gas station.

  “Of course I do,” Maggie the waitress-slash-bookworm replied to Kippy’s request for directions and began jotting the street-by-street route down on a napkin.

  Kippy left Café on the Park with Maggie’s napkin as well as a couple of iced-coffees and a bag of cornbread muffins to go with tonight’s dinner of trail mix and jerky.

  Though the library parking lot was only a quarter full—about what you’d expect for midafternoon on a school day in a small town—Kippy backed the animal control truck into an open spot in the far back and hiked in. She figured this would give her a clear view of the vehicle when the time came to exit the library, in order to make sure it wasn’t receiving any undue attention. Kippy glanced about in every direction.

  No sirens and no signs of any local constables.

  So far, so good.

  The Lake Mills Public Library itself was two stories of rustic stone and steep roofs. It looked more like a villa you’d see in Switzerland than the main public building in a sleepy fishing town in southern Wisconsin. She might have even enjoyed poking about in there for an hour or two were it under other circumstances … any other circumstances.

  “Good afternoon,” a petite woman in a skirt and blouse said after opening the door for Kippy.

  “Thank you,” Kippy replied.

  “Is it a boy or a girl?” the woman asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Your baby? Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

  “Oh, yeah—my husband and I decided to wait and be surprised.”

  It turned out the woman, who introduced herself as Donna, worked at the library.

  “I forgot my purse at home, so idiot me didn’t bring my card,” Kippy lied through her teeth. “I just need to verify that my current assignment is on here and not the one from last week.” Kippy had held up Feist’s flash drive as though it were an airtight alibi. “Can I use one of your computers to double-check?”

  “Of course.” Donna the librarian led Kippy past the reference desk and over to a row of computers.

  “Class keeps me jumping,” Kippy said. She was all set to blather on about homework assignments and strict professors but decided to leave it at that.

  “This is read only.” Donna had fumbled with the login a second or two and then pulled a chair out for Kippy to sit in. “You won’t be able to write or save changes to your memory stick.”

  “That’s okay,” Kippy said and did her best imitation of a pregnant woman lowering herself into a chair. “Thank you for all your help.”

  Kippy continued smiling at Donna until the librarian took the hint and strolled away. She then looked about the room. As expected, just a handful of library patrons, none of whom were staring in her direction or casting off weird vibes.

  Kippy then plugged the flash drive into the USB port, brought up Windows Explorer, and then clicked the removable drive to find out exactly what Special Prosecutor Peter Feist had ferreted away. There was only one folder … and the folder was titled SISKIN.

  After thirty seconds of review, Kippy could barely wait to get back to the cabin and share the news of what she’d discovered with Mace, to let him know they weren’t shit out of luck.

  Instead, they’d hit pay dirt.

  The flash drive was pay dirt.

  CHAPTER 43

  Two hours in the same car and he could barely stomach the little fucker. Can’t stomach … Woods mentally checked off another idiom.

  There certainly was a lost art of conversation—Woods had been railing about it for years—social events chewed up by small-talk dullards and gossiping hens. That said, Woods would rather have the most somnolent-inducing bore or cloyingest of gossipmongers riding shotgun with him than spend another five minutes with young Cappelli. In the world according to Cappelli Jr., everything revolved around cutting or stabbing, punching or gouging, slicing or burning, and—of course—the endless tales of all the hot babes he’d screwed as well as the various positions in which he’d screwed them.

  “So I pop the dog-fucker’s eyes out and we watch him run around the yard like a chicken with its head cut off,” Cappelli Jr. said.

  Cordov Woods shook his head. Never again, he thought. Woods also considered how easy it would be to reach across the seat, grab the psychotic little shit by the throat, and squeeze the undeserved life out of him. The world would be a much sunnier place without Frank Cappelli Jr. wasting perfectly good oxygen. Woods was willing to bet he could do it without even swerving out of his lane. Hell, he’d done it once before. But how would that play out? Three bodies at the Skokie crematorium instead of two? Then use Cappelli Jr.’s own cell phone to make a few late-night calls to casinos in Las Vegas, bullshit with whoever answers about reservations and weather forecasts and upcoming concert events long enough to make it appear as though Junior had held several actual conversations before he vanished, and then bust up and toss Cappelli’s phone into Lake Michigan.

  Alas, Frank Cappelli Sr., unlike his offspring, wasn’t a fucking idiot. Woods could keep a straight face and might be able to pull it off—but Jethro?—those fuckers would shake Jethro’s ass a little bit, show him a branch pruner, and find out everything Jethro knew in about six seconds flat—and then the two of them would be taking a horizontal drive out to the Skokie crematorium. No, Woods thought, if he ever got serious about capping this little Cappelli shit, his best move—after he’d done the deed—would be to drive over to Frank Cappelli Sr.’s Winnetka compound and take him out along with about ten other Cappelli soldiers.

  However, even with the skill set Cordov Woods brought to the table, that might prove a bridge too far.

  Mobsters … what are ya gonna do?

  “But it’s not like he could get away,” Cappelli Jr. said, disappointed.

  Woods shook his head again. “We don’t need him screaming.”

  “I could cut his tongue out.”

  “I think he might still be able to scream,” Jethro offered from the back seat.

  “Without a tongue?”

  “Well, he certainly wouldn’t be able to say much,” Woods replied, “but I guarantee he’d scream up a blue storm.”

  Yup, Woods thought. After today, he would never again work with Junior the infantile psychopath, nevermore … no matter what Callum ordered or Cappelli Sr. offered.

  Woods spotted the address on a post—Feist’s cabin number—and shot a glance to his right as they passed by. “Either of you see a car or truck down there?”

  “I couldn’t even see the fucking cabin,” Cappelli said. “Why aren’t we driving down?”

  “The girl’s got a gun,” Woods said. “Maybe Reid does, too.”

  He pulled their Continental into the next driveway, backed up, and turned around. Woods drove past the entrance to Feist’s driveway again, much slower this time, but still couldn’t spot any vehicle or the cabin itself. This was of no surprise as, on this side of the lake, owners had to navigate some steep and twisty hills to get down to their lakefront dwellings. Woods kept on driving—one, two, three driveways away before pulling in and parking on a flat spot between trees. Woods figured this was where the cabin owner had any visitors park who showed up in vehicles lacking four-wheel drive.

  “Why so far away?” Cappelli asked.

  “I don’t want to spook Reid’s dogs or let them spot us in the neighbor’s driveway,” Woods said and looked back at Jethro. “You’re staying put, kid. If anyone comes knocking on the window, show them that badge I gave you and request they return to their cabin until further notice.”

  Woods then looked Frank Cappelli Jr. in the eyes. “Okay, city boy, we’re going to see what’s going on at Feist’s cabin. Stay forty yards behind me un
less I wave you over, okay? And stick to the grass and dirt. Don’t be stepping on sticks or busting branches.”

  “I’m not a fucking idiot.”

  “I know you’re not,” Woods lied, “but we need to be as silent as possible so we don’t spook the dogs.”

  “I fucking hate dogs.”

  “If we see any,” Woods said, fitting the silencer onto his SIG Sauer P226, “it’s proof they’re here. But don’t worry; these aren’t pit bulls or German shepherds, like the cops use. They’re cadaver dogs. Sniffers, not fighters.”

  * * *

  Cordov Woods slipped through the brush, eyes on the ground in front of him, his P226 hanging loosely from his right hand. It was hot for May and he should have lost the long coat, but his tools of the trade were in different pockets and you never knew what might come in handy. He worked his way down the hill as quietly as possible and—grudgingly—had to hand it to Cappelli Jr., who appeared to be doing the same.

  Woods squatted fifty yards up from the Feist cabin; glanced back to make sure young Cappelli had stopped as well. Then he settled in and stared down at the little shack. His first thought was goddamnit. No car; likely meant nobody was home. Woods rolled onto his stomach and crawled forward a few more yards until he got a better angle. From here he could see into the side window, which meant nothing. Feist could have left the curtains open to show teenage vandals there was nothing to steal and not much to bust up, either. But then Woods realized the window itself was open.

  Feist would have been a damn fool to leave a window open and let the elements in.

  Feist may have been a fool, but he wasn’t a damned one.

  Woods motioned Cappelli Jr. over with a wave of his gun hand.

  The young thug tiptoed over like some kind of conscientious burglar not wanting to wake a sleeping household and mouthed, “What?”

  “I’ve got a plan,” Woods whispered.

  PART FOUR

  CADAVER DOGS

  You beat me like a dog, yet were surprised when I bit back.

  —Jonny Whiting and The U-Turns, “Chainsaw”

  CHAPTER 44

  Vira began to snarl.

  I cut her off with a gesture. Maggie and Delta joined her in facing the side window above the dilapidated sofa. A branch snapped and I leaped off my seat at the kitchen table where I’d been flipping cards at solitaire, rushed to the drapes, and yanked them shut. I twisted sideways, back now against the wall, reminding myself to breathe. At first I thought Vira had been notifying me of Kippy’s arrival in the truck, but whatever was outside was something else.

  All three dogs began to growl.

  “Shh,” I whispered, a finger at my lips.

  I heard approaching footsteps now, heading downhill toward the cabin, toward us, and nudged the drape an inch to peek outside. A young guy in a fancy brown suit was traipsing our way.

  That’s when he began calling out to the cabin.

  “Laura,” he shouted, sliding around the corner, approaching the front stoop. “Laura, are you in there?”

  I watched the suited figure through the thin, flowery curtain covering the windowpanes. He began rapping lightly on the cabin door.

  “Laura, it’s Rick from next door. Anna said she heard a car and thought you might be here with the little ones.”

  I held my finger to my lips and stared hard from Delta to Maggie to Vira.

  “I know somebody’s in there.” The figure rapped harder on the door. “I saw you shut the drapes.”

  Hair stood on the back of my neck. This was exactly what we’d been worried about, some Rock Lake busybody popping by to check in. I stayed glued to the carpet.

  “This isn’t funny,” the figure continued speaking. “Not with all that’s happened.”

  The figure jiggled the doorknob, and then jiggled it harder. Thank god I’d locked it after Kippy’s departure. The figure now put a shoulder into the door; it shook in its frame.

  Vira spun a slow three-sixty. Paying no heed to my warnings of caution, she began a low growl. I stepped into the center of the room and placed a palm on top of her head. The figure working the door ceased his knob-jiggling and we all stood in silence.

  “I heard that,” the figure said, breaking the stillness. “I’m done fooling around out here. I’m going to call the cops.” The figure held up what appeared to be a smartphone.

  “I’m Laura’s brother,” I said, surprised at how calm the words resonated. “I just stepped out of the shower for Christ’s sake.”

  After a beat, the figure said, “Laura’s brother?”

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “I didn’t know Laura had any brothers.”

  “Laura has two,” I said, getting better at deceit, improving my game. “Weren’t you at the funeral?”

  There was another pause, this time longer, and we watched the figure through the thin drapes as he shifted about on the rotting front stoop.

  “We sent flowers,” he finally said. “It was a horrible thing that happened to Peter.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It was.”

  “Are you going to open the door?”

  “I’m dripping wet.”

  “Look, I don’t know you,” the figure said, “so I’m going to have to see some identification to prove you’re really Laura’s brother.”

  “I’m dripping wet,” I repeated.

  “What, you haven’t been drying off while we’ve been talking?” the figure said. “Fuck are you? A faggot?”

  Feist’s Rock Lake neighbor had taken an unusual conversation in a most-unusual direction. I squinted at the cabin door and tried to think. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll come over with my ID and a six-pack of beer.”

  A plan was forming in my head. Get this lake-neighbor guy the hell out of here, grab the dogs, hustle up to the access road, hide in the brush until Kippy returns, flag her down, and vamoose as far from here as humanly possible.

  “No, I don’t think I want to drink a six-pack with a faggot,” the figure said, still holding up his phone. “And I sure as hell don’t think you’re Laura’s brother.”

  “What’s the matter with you, pal?” I replied, apprehensive now, grasping at straws. “Laura wanted me to check on the cabin, make sure it’s still standing.”

  “I’m not your fucking pal, and I could knock this door down if I wanted to.”

  The figure was getting seriously bent out of shape; all tenor of neighborly love had long since evaporated.

  “Don’t do that,” I said in my best high school principal tone. “Laura’s selling the place and she’ll be angry if you bust it down.”

  “Open this goddamn door, faggot.”

  Jesus, what the hell was the matter with this guy? “I’ve got dogs in here, sir … and you don’t want to get them pissed off at you.”

  The figure took a step backward. “Ain’t you been watching TV? There’s a manhunt for the guy and lady that helped kill Feist. And I heard they got them a pack of dogs.”

  Both the figure at the door and I stood motionless a long moment.

  “Holy shit,” the figure finally said, stumbling off the rotted stoop. “Holy shit—you’re that guy.”

  And, with a final holy shit, the man in the brown suit took off running, this time kitchen side. I watched him through the open window as he scampered up the driveway, phone held in front of him, likely in search of that elusive bar he needed to dial 911.

  I shot for the front door, fumbled with the lock. The girls and I needed to get the hell out of here ASAP. The kids raised a chorus of barks and snarls, trying to warn me of something, but I was moving way too quickly. I began opening the door right as I noticed the bulk of humanity now standing outside. A hand clasped my shirt. A split-second later, I was flying ass-over-teakettle, tumbling onto the dirt and sand as the door slammed shut … trapping my dogs inside.

  CHAPTER 45

  Kippy was going too fast on the gravel road and was lucky to catch the glare off a bumper as she sped past a lake home ac
cess road several doors down from Feist’s cabin. A jerk of her head confirmed a good-sized car was now parked amid the trees at the neck of the neighbor’s driveway. She didn’t recall seeing a car parked there earlier that morning on their first approach to Feist’s shack, back when she’d been in the passenger seat. And she’d been in cop mode at the time. She also hadn’t seen it sitting there on her way out to the library, while also in cop mode.

  Kippy curved a bend and eased the dog mobile to the side of the road, pocketed her handcuffs, and slipped into the woods. The Beretta had always been with her, holstered inside the folded pillow of her pregnancy which she now tore out from under the sweatshirt to get at her firearm. She jogged back a couple dozen yards and dropped to her knees.

  She cursed under her breath.

  A Lincoln Continental … Illinois plates … and the vehicle was still running.

  Kippy cursed again. She did not feel good about this. She should have had Mace sit out in the woods with the dogs, a half mile away from the cabin. She closed her eyes and listened. No sound, no dogs yapping, nothing busting up the tranquility of a late afternoon at Rock Lake. Half the lot owners were probably from Illinois. But a Lincoln Continental left idling—who was she kidding? This meant Police Superintendent Callum’s driver. Sure, the plates were civilian, but with the shit that Callum’s driver had pulled—or planned on pulling—he’d not be bopping about the Midwest sporting government plates.

  Then something moved in the back seat and Kippy nearly jumped from her skin.

  She kept low, cutting wide left for a better angle. She got behind a tree no more than thirty feet from the sedan and stood up. She realized why the car was running, air-conditioning; someone’s head bobbed up and down as though to music. Kippy checked her six and stepped toward the back of the Continental, Beretta in a two-handed grip. She was able to sneak up, curve around the stern of the sedan, and come even with the rear side window without being spotted.