“Check the glove compartment, see if there’s something to write with.”
Skarda opened the glove compartment with one hand—the other was still cuffed to the handle above the door—and found a pencil and a small notebook. I took them, returned to the Cherokee, and carefully wrote down the vehicle identification number that I read off of the metal strip attached to the corner of the dashboard. When I returned to the Explorer, Skarda said, “Now what?”
“Watch and learn,” I said.
Not far from the Maplewood Mall was a community of new and used car dealerships. I found one that sold Jeep Cherokees and pulled into the lot. I left Skarda waiting in the Explorer while I walked inside. I went to the parts and service desk and told the mechanic that yet again I had locked my one and only key—along with my wallet containing my ID—inside my Jeep Cherokee. I asked if they could contact the manufacturer, give them the VIN, ask for the specs, and cut a duplicate key. They said that they could, that it would take half an hour. Fifty minutes and fifty dollars later, I walked out of the dealership with a new key. That’s the part I told a visibly relived Skarda when I returned to the Ford Explorer. The part I didn’t tell him was that the dealership had demanded proof of ownership before they cut the key, which I was able to supply with a call to the Minnesota Department of Driver and Vehicle Services because, well, I actually did own the Jeep Cherokee.
We drove back to the mall, parked the Explorer, unlocked the Cherokee, slipped inside, and started the engine. Yes, I again locked Skarda’s handcuff around the door handle before we drove off. Despite that, Skarda was impressed.
“That was the slickest bit of car stealing I’ve ever heard of,” he said. “I didn’t know it was so easy.”
“Like most things worth doing, it requires audacity. In any case, it beats the hell out of pulling ignition wires and breaking steering column locks. And look, we have a full tank of gas. So, where are we going?”
“Why ask me?”
“Hey, pal. You’re Plan B, remember. I deliver you to your crew and your crew pays me fifty thousand dollars.”
“Yeah…”
“You’re not reneging on your part of the agreement, are you, Dave?”
“No, no, of course not. It’s just … fifty thousand dollars.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll settle for half; take it in cash. I’ll scoot up to Canada and lay low until things cool down a bit, give it maybe a couple months just to be on the safe side, then come back for my money.”
“Ummm.”
“You had better not be messing with me, Dave. We had a deal.”
“I’m not, I’m not messing with you, it’s just…”
“You might not know this about me, pal, but I have a volatile personality.”
“It’s just that I need to make a phone call first, that’s all.”
“Once we get out of the Cities we’ll find a pay phone,” I said. “Do they still have pay phones?”
* * *
They did. We found one in the lobby of Tobies Restaurant and Bakery in Hinckley, about halfway between the Twin Cities and Duluth. Because of its location, Hinckley had been a popular tourist trap since World War II. Travelers traditionally stopped there for a pee break, to purchase petroleum by-products, stretch their legs, or grab a quick bite. Since ’48, Tobies had been the main beneficiary of this tradition, at least until the fast-food chains set up franchises across the street. It was crowded—it was always crowded. Admittedly, the food wasn’t all that memorable, the service was what you would expect in a tourist town, and the congestion was exasperating at best. On the other hand, Tobies bakery served astonishing caramel rolls; they were so light, sticky, and sweet that I swear to God, they could kill a diabetic in thirty seconds flat.
I had to remove Skarda’s handcuffs before we went inside. After I did, I showed him the Glock that I concealed beneath my shirt and reminded him that I was an exceedingly desperate man.
“You don’t need to worry about me, Dyson,” he said.
“Then I won’t,” I said, although I didn’t mean it.
Tobies had a bakery, restaurant, coffeehouse, and lounge, plus banquet and meeting facilities in different buildings that seemed to be connected by Velcro. We entered through the bakery. I exchanged bills for change and found the telephone. Skarda pumped the quarters in, but I stopped him before he could dial.
“Who are you calling?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Are you calling your family? Because that’s the first place the cops’ll look for you. They might already have a tap in place.”
“We have prepaid cell phones. We only use them for business and then we toss them away.” Skarda grinned. “I really do have a crew. We really do know what we’re doing.”
“How did you get caught, then?”
“How did you?”
He had me there.
“We’re just a couple of John Dillingers, we are,” I said.
Skarda placed his call. I positioned myself next to him so I could hear what was spoken through the receiver.
“Hello,” a male voice said.
“Hello, Dad?” Skarda said. “It’s Dave.”
“Dave?”
“Yeah, Dave.”
“Dave’s not here.”
The exchange made me laugh so loudly that people passing through the lobby turned to look, which is exactly what you want when you’re the object of a police manhunt, people staring at you.
“Dammit, Dad, this is your son David speaking,” Skarda said. “You know what, let me talk to Josie.”
“Josie’s not here.”
“Who the hell is there?”
“Everyone’s laying low. You’re in trouble, boy.”
“Tell me about it.”
“The escape was on the TV. The Star Tribune got a story up on its Web site. They say this fella you’re with, this Dyson, Nick Dyson, they say he’s dangerous, a career criminal, that he’s robbed banks and armored cars and shit.” Skarda glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “I don’t think they care that much ’bout you, but they sure want this Dyson fella. If you ain’t done it yet, you gotta get shy of him, boy. Get as far away from that psycho as you can.”
Skarda took a deep breath and said, “Dad, the man is standing right next to me. He’s listening to every word you say.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line before Skarda’s old man spoke again. “Well, you shoulda said somethin’ cuz now I feel bad.”
“Dad, I’m bringing him to the cabin.”
“The cabin?”
“You know, the cabin.”
“Oh, oh yeah—the cabin.”
“Tell Josie. Tell her that I owe the man some money. Will you do that?”
“Josie?”
“Yes.”
“Josie’s not here.”
“Dad, I’m going to hang up. Tell Josie I’ll call later.”
Skarda hung up the phone.
“My dad,” he said. “He’s…” Skarda shook his head.
“Crazy?” I said.
“Old.”
“I think I’d rather be crazy. Let’s go.”
* * *
My intention was to get back on the road as soon as possible—keep moving, my inner voice chanted—but the aromas wafting up from the bakery were too enticing.
“I haven’t eaten all day,” Skarda said. “How ’bout you?”
“Well, if you’re going to insist, we could grab something and take it with us.”
“Or we could eat here.” Skarda gestured at the café on the other side of the bakery. It had a cozy, hometown feel to it, as if it were trying to channel the corner drugstore where Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney once shared a soda. It might have managed it, too, if not for all the damn hanging plants.
“Quickly,” I said.
We bellied up to the rounded glass display cases and started searching for bakery. I was thinking something simple, like a crispy elephant ear. I
bent to take a good look at it. Plain or filled, I debated. That’s when the deputy from the Pine County Sheriff’s Department walked in. I saw his brown and tan uniform reflected in the glass before I saw him. He called out the name of the cashier, which I didn’t get. She called his name in return. “Pat.” I rose slowly and casually stepped aside, giving him room to search the glass case.
Skarda didn’t notice the deputy at all until he nudged him while examining the cake donuts.
“Excuse me,” the deputy said.
“S’okay,” Skarda said. Then he saw the uniform, saw the badge, saw the gun in the black holster. He stood upright and still, a look of alarm across his face. I was terrified that he would do something stupid, like run, or worse, just stand there with that idiot expression until the deputy noticed and asked what his problem was, so I attempted to distract the cop.
“I always thought that thing about cops and donuts was a myth,” I said.
The deputy kept looking through the glass, answering as if he had heard the remark a thousand times before.
“It started because for a long time the only places that were open past 10 P.M. besides bars were donut shops,” he said. “So that’s where officers working the third shift went on their breaks. Plus, they tend to be located in centralized areas, the donut shops, so they can be used for briefings.” The deputy turned and smiled at me. It was a nice smile; made me want to contribute to the Police Benevolent Association. “Besides, who doesn’t like a fresh donut?”
“No true God-fearing American, that’s for sure,” I said.
I watched Skarda over the deputy’s shoulder. He took a step backward and swiveled his head back and forth as if he were searching for an exit. If I could have slapped him, I would have.
“What’ll you have, Pat?” the cashier asked.
“Gimme a couple of fudge cake donuts and a café hazelnut.”
“Coming up.”
The cashier put the donuts in a small white bag with the name Tobies printed on the side and poured the coffee while the deputy reached in his pocket for his wallet. It was then that I noticed the name tag above his pocket read GARRETT.
“You know what,” I said. “I got this.” I put my hand in my own pocket and produced what was left of Chad’s $187.
“Are you sure?” the deputy asked.
“It’s my pleasure. Thank you for your service.”
“Thank you,” the deputy said.
A moment later, he left the bakery.
“That was nice of you,” the cashier said.
“I’m a helluva guy.” I turned to Skarda. “So, Dave. See anything you like?”
“I don’t feel well.”
And he didn’t feel well again until I got him outside, into the Jeep Cherokee, and fifteen miles down the road.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess I froze back there.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s just, after everything that’s happened today, seeing the deputy appear out of nowhere like that … I’m not usually that easily frightened.”
“Forget it. I wasn’t exactly calm myself, especially after I learned his name.”
“His name?”
“The deputy back there, his name was Pat Garrett. Do you believe that?”
“Who’s Pat Garrett?”
“The lawman who gunned down Billy the Kid.”
“Oh God, I’m going to be sick.”
“You know Dave, I don’t think you’re cut out for this line of work.”
* * *
We needed to eat, which was fine with Skarda as long as we didn’t leave the car, so I stopped at the first fast-food joint we found with a drive-thru window. Skarda said he felt better after consuming a couple of Quarter Pounders with Cheese, although I couldn’t say the same. Note to self, my inner voice told me. Biggest drawback about being on the run, the food sucks.
Afterward, we located a Target store, where I bought a $29.99 cell phone and a prepaid phone card with 160 minutes on it. Unfortunately, this required driving to a coffeehouse that allowed us to use an electrical outlet to charge the phone and activate it. There’s a lot to be said about hiding in plain sight, although our last brush with honest, tax-paying citizens didn’t exactly fill either of us with confidence. By then, however, Skarda was feeling better, so much so that he protested when I ordered a couple of straight-ahead black coffees. He wanted something called a caramel macchiato—when the hell did that become coffee? I turned him down, partly out of principle and partly because, after paying for the key, treating the deputy, and buying the cell phone, minutes card, fast food, and coffee—not to mention sales tax—I was down to exactly $59.35 in my pocket, a fact that I shared with Skarda.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll get your money.”
“Do I look worried?”
“I don’t know. It’s kinda hard to tell.”
“This Josie, is she your wife?”
“My sister.”
“Is she a member of your crew?”
“Yes, yes she is.”
I slid the cell phone across the table. “I think it’s time to call her. Tell her to get my money together.”
Skarda took the phone, flipped it open, and completed the call.
“Put it on speaker,” I said, and he did after first glancing around him to see if anyone else could hear.
“Hello,” a woman’s voice said.
“Josie? It’s Dave.”
“Dad said you called. Are you okay? Are you safe? Where are you?”
“Near Duluth. Have the cops been around?”
“No.”
“No?” I said.
“At least none have knocked on the door and searched the place or anything,” Josie said. “Is that Dyson?”
“Yes,” Skarda said.
“Good evening, Mr. Dyson.”
“Good evening, Ms. Skarda,” I said. “Is that correct, your last name?”
“Yes. JoEllen Skarda. My friends call me Josie.”
“May I call you Josie?”
“Please do.”
“Josie, the police have you staked out. Could be they’re watching to see if you go to your brother or he comes to you.”
“This isn’t the Cities, Mr. Dyson. There’s not a lot of people, not a lot of traffic; not a lot of places you can hang around up here and not be noticed. If we were being watched, I think we would know it.”
“Let’s pretend, for safety’s sake, that you are being watched and watched closely. Where could we meet?”
“The cabin. He’ll take you to the cabin, but I have to ask—why do we need to meet?”
“Josie, your brother owes me fifty thousand dollars. He says you’re good for it.”
“What?”
“Wait,” Skarda said. “I thought you said twenty-five thousand.”
“What?”
“I’ll accept twenty-five if you have the cash on hand,” I said, “and I don’t have to wait for it.”
“What are you talking about?” Josie asked.
I leaned away from the table and gestured at the cell. Skarda took that as his cue to explain himself. When he finished, he said, “We’ll pay him off at the cabin, okay, sis?”
“Are you sure?”
“Kinda between a rock and a hard place, you know?”
Josie sighed deeply. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll see you there. When?”
“Two hours. Maybe a little less.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
“Love you, sis.”
“Love you, too.”
“Josie,” I said.
“Yes, Mr. Dyson?”
“I don’t have to threaten you, do I?”
She paused for a moment and said, “No, Mr. Dyson.”
“Love you,” I said.
Josie sighed as if she had heard lots of other men say those words without meaning them and hung up. Skarda deactivated the phone and leaned back from the table just as I had. He folded his arms across his chest.
“We�
�re set,” he said.
“So it would seem.”
He smiled.
I smiled back.
THREE
Night falls harder in northern Minnesota than it does in most places. There are few cities, less ambient light—you can drive for tens of miles without seeing anything beyond your headlights except for the moon and the glitter of stars. We were on 53 heading north. I knew because the highway signs said so. Beyond that I had no idea where I was. Eventually we went northeast before catching a county highway with just the impression of traffic lines. The sign named Embarrass, Babbitt, Krueger, and Ely without listing how far away the towns were in miles. This was the heart of the Iron Range, as it was known in the Cities, or simply “the Range” to those who actually lived there—so named because of the rich iron deposits that had fueled the region’s economy for a hundred years.
“Where are we going?” I asked. I had asked before, but Skarda was being as coy with me as I had been with him on the drive to White Bear Lake, telling me where to turn and little else. Finally I reached over and gave him an idiot slap to the back of his head.
“Where are we going?” I asked again.
“To the cabin.”
“I got that part.”
“It’s a small place on a lake a few miles south of Krueger. We use it as a hideout.”
“A hideout? What are you, the Cavendish Gang?”
“Who are they?”
“From the Lone Ranger, the gang that—never mind. Tell me about the cabin.”
“It used to be owned by a stockbroker from Chicago. He died a year ago and his family has been trying to sell it ever since, only there are no takers. My sister is the real estate agent.”
“I suppose the real estate market is pretty tough up here.”
“Tough everywhere,” Skarda said. “Anyway, it’s isolated, which I guess is one of the reasons it’s so hard to sell. We’ve been using it because sis thinks it’s better that we’re never seen together in public. You gotta remember, around here everyone’s connected to everyone else. It’s kind of like Kevin Bacon except you don’t need six moves. Makes life complicated sometimes; hard to keep a secret.”
“Your sister, Josie—I’m going to take a flyer here and say she’s the brains behind this operation.”
“I suppose she is.”
The Last Kind Word Page 3
