“I see ’em,” the old man said. I could barely hear him, though, over the sound of my inner voice.
Are you nervous now?
I stopped the Cherokee in the center of the clearing and shut down the engine.
“Deputies James and Williams are here,” I said softly. “They’re leaning against their cruiser on my left and looking bored. There’s a Chevy Malibu parked next to them. It’s empty. There’s a wooden shack to the right about the size of a garage. Doors are open. Looks like barrels of aviation fuel inside. There’s a Subaru Forester parked in front of me near the lakeshore. There’s someone inside; I can’t see who. A seaplane, single engine, white with a blue racing stripe, serial number N2-something is tied up at a long wooden dock. It looks like a six-seater, but what do I know? Brand and a Mexican gentleman are standing between the dock and the SUV. Fenelon is two paces behind them like a good little serving boy.”
“What are you doing?” the old man said. “Dyson, what?”
“Something bothering you, old man?”
“You are.”
“Really? I’d think you’d be more concerned about the guys with the machine guns.”
I got out of the Cherokee, leaving the door open, and moved toward Brand and his companion. The old man did the same. The two Hispanics holding the road came up behind us until they were even with the back bumper of the car. I wasn’t particularly concerned about them. After all, money wasn’t changing hands.
“Hi, John,” I said. “Who’s your friend?”
Brand answered by pointing to a blue and white checkered picnic blanket spread out on the ground. Carefully arranged on top of the blanket were four Kevlar vests, three Avtomat Kalashnikova obraztsa 1947 assault rifles, eight loose magazines, two blasting caps, and what looked like a block of modeling clay. I stepped over to the blanket and inspected the merchandise like I knew what I was doing.
“It’s all here,” I said.
“We”—Brand nudged his companion—“didn’t have Semtex 10. I hope C-4 will do.”
I looked at the brilliant blue lake. In the distance I could see two speedboats racing toward us, the noise of their engines still out of range.
“Just fine,” I said.
“One more thing.”
Brand gestured toward the Subaru. The back door opened and his thug emerged. He was holding a handgun. He pulled a woman out after him. He pressed the muzzle of the gun against her temple. In that moment I felt as if my entire body were being squeezed though a hole way too small for it.
“Hold everything, hold everything.” I was nearly screaming. “Just wait.” I pivoted to face Brand. “He has a hostage,” I spoke softly. “You’ve taken Jill as a hostage,” I said loudly. “What the hell, Brand, you’ve taken a hostage?”
“You said no one would get hurt,” the old man shouted. He was in tears. “You said my family would be all right. You promised. You promised.” He sank to his knees. I stepped next to him and rested a hand on his shoulder. It gave me the opportunity to gaze back out on Crane Lake. The two speedboats had veered off.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“What?” the old man asked. “What are you saying?”
“I said I didn’t like taking orders,” Brand said. “From now on we’re doing things my way.”
I spun toward Jill again. Her hair was disheveled, and the thin, short, low-cut nightgown she was wearing was soiled, yet there didn’t seem to be a mark on her from what I could see. She was trembling; I didn’t know if it was from fear or cold. The way she moved her bare feet, it was probably both. I stepped to the picnic blanket, grabbed two ends, and yanked it off the ground. The weapons and the rest tumbled off and clattered onto the grass and dirt. I took the blanket and walked to where Jill was standing. The thug took a step backward as I approached. The gesture was more out of respect than fear. I wrapped the blanket around Jill’s shoulders and helped her close it in front.
“They came in the morning,” she said. “Roy wasn’t there. Roy was at the cabin with you.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Are you all right? Are you hurt?” I gave that last word all the meaning I could.
“They didn’t hurt me—not like that.” Jill’s eyes flitted to the thug, then back to me. “He said they wouldn’t hurt me—like that.”
How gallant of him, my inner voice said.
“I’ll get you out of this,” I told her. “I’ll get you back home. I promise.”
Jill tried to smile, only she didn’t do a very good job of it. “You did warn me, didn’t you, Dyson? You said I should leave. Why didn’t I listen?” She smiled again, still faintly.
“It’s those damn butterflies,” I said.
Jill smiled some more, but the tears forming in her eyes washed it away. “I’m so scared,” she said.
I hugged her; she mashed her face against my chest. The shuddering of her body shook both of us. I found the thug’s eyes. There were so many things I wanted to say to him. What came out was this: “From what I’ve seen, you’re the only professional in the room. I’m holding you personally responsible for her safety.”
“It’s out of my hands,” he said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Dyson.” Brand was calling to me, waving his hand that I should join him. I released Jill, and she bowed her head, resting her chin against her chest. I cupped her face with my hands and kissed her forehead, just as I had wanted to do before she went on the Silver Bay raid. Yet laughter and love, I couldn’t promise that no matter how much I longed to.
“Soon,” I said. “I’ll take you home soon.”
She didn’t reply.
I moved toward where Brand was standing. The two Mexicans were still in position behind the Jeep Cherokee. My eyes went from them to James and Williams. Williams was pointing at me as if his finger were a gun. Why are they here? my inner voice wondered.
The old man was still kneeling on the ground. He had his head turned away as if he were afraid Jill would see him.
“Pick up the guns,” I told him as I passed. “Put everything in the back of the Cherokee.”
“Dyson.” His voice was the squeak of chalk on a blackboard.
“It is what it is, old man. Now do what I tell you.”
I went up to Brand, stopping far enough away that I wouldn’t be tempted to punch his smug face. It wasn’t for his safety. It was for mine. Fenelon was still behind him. He spent a lot of time staring down at his shoes. My impression was that he was even more afraid than Jill was.
I tried hard to keep my emotions in check when I spoke. “You have very bad manners, Brand. Your mother ever tell you that?”
“Now we do things my way.”
“So you said.”
“When you pull the job my man goes with.” Brand gestured with his chin toward the thug, and my inner voice told me, That’s what he meant by Jill’s safety being out of his hands. “He’s going to be with you every second of the day until you get the money. Once you do, he’ll tell you where to take it. Any questions?”
“What happens after you get the money?”
“You get the girl.”
“Then we all go our separate ways and no hard feelings, right?”
Brand gestured again with his chin, this time pointing it at Deputies James and Williams. “Oh, I don’t think you’ll get far,” he said.
So that’s why they’re here, my inner voice said.
“The arrangement seems a bit one-sided,” I said aloud. “You get the money and I get the time.”
“What’s the matter, Dyson? Don’t you think the girl’s worth it? The old man said she was your favorite.”
“She’s my favorite because she’s not an asshole or a bitch. You’re both.”
“Don’t call me names, Dyson. I don’t like it.”
All the while we spoke, I regarded the Mexican standing next to Brand. He watched me watching him. I had seen the expression on his face before. It said he was more than willing to shoot me in the f
ace and toss my body in the nearest ditch if I pushed him into it, otherwise he’d rather not be bothered. So why was he here? The answer came to me when I looked at Brand again.
The thug is his only muscle, my inner voice told me. Probably he was more than enough until now. Fenelon doesn’t count. The deputies, they’re here just for show—no way they’d let Brand dirty their hands any more than he said. That’s why he needs the Mexicans. If you can keep them involved, make sure they’re at the exchange …
I took a chance and asked the Mexican how much Brand had promised him. “Mire, amigo, ¿cuánto le prometió ese hijo de puta? ¿La mitad?”
Brand took a step backward so he could see us both at the same time. “What are you saying?” he wanted to know.
The Mexican paused before answering. “Sí, la mitad.”
Half, my inner voice translated. Brand promised him half.
James and Williams were still leaning against their patrol car watching the scene as if it were a bad performance of Shakespeare in the Park. I used my thumb to point at them and told the Mexican that Brand had promised the deputies who allowed him to operate in their county the same thing. “La policía le permite a Brand hacer lo que quiere en este territorio. Él les prometió la mitad también.”
“¿Ah sí?”
“Stop it,” Brand said. “Speak English.”
“¿A quién crees que él va a engañar?” I asked.
The Mexican gazed at the deputies and then studied Brand with an expression that asked the same question—which of them was Brand planning on screwing over?
“What the hell are you talking about?” Brand wanted to know.
“Sabes que él no se está metiendo en todo este lio por nada,” I said.
“Pues claro que no,” the Mexican replied, agreeing that Brand wasn’t likely to be doing all this for free. I offered advice.
“Si yo fuera tú, yo me iría al lugar del cambio con todas las armas y hombres que tengas.”
He nodded and smiled just a tiny bit as if to say that bringing all the men and guns he had to the exchange was a good idea. But he then suggested that trying to mess with him was most decidedly not. “Puede ser que los use contra ti.”
“Todo lo que quiero es esa chica sana y salva sin ningún daño,” I said. “Ustedes pueden resolver el resto por su cuenta.”
“Está bien,” the Mexican said, yet I wasn’t sure if he actually believed that I didn’t care what he and Brand did with the money as long as the girl was delivered safe and sound without a scratch on her—or if he cared one way or the other.
“Dammit, speak English,” Brand said. He turned toward Fenelon. “What did they say?”
Fenelon seemed confused. “I don’t know exactly.”
“You speak Spanish.”
“Not that good, you know that.”
Brand turned his attention back to the Mexican. “I don’t know what deal Dyson was trying to make with you…”
“No deal, hombre,” the Mexican said. “He warned to make sure the girl she not be harmed.”
“Brian?”
“That’s what I got, what I could get,” Fenelon said. “Dyson said if the girl was harmed, there would be, what’s the word, consequences.”
“Consequences, Dyson? Are you threatening me?”
“I’ll be seeing you around, John,” I said.
I turned my back on Brand so he wouldn’t see me smile. Both the Mexican and Fenelon were on board—at least they seemed to be—which meant the chance of rescuing Jill just improved greatly. I moved toward the Jeep Cherokee. The two Mexican sentries were clutching their rifles like they were teddy bears—very unprofessional—while watching the old man load the last of the ordnance in the back. Behind me I could hear Brand talking quickly to the Mexican gunrunner.
“Dyson’s got nothing,” he said. “Nobody to help him. He’s all talk.”
My only fear was that I overplayed my hand, that Brand would hurt Jill just to prove that he could. I tried to shake the thought from my head, but it held on too tightly.
“Get in the car,” I told the old man.
He did. At the same time, Brand’s thug helped Jill into the backseat of the Subaru. From where I was standing it looked like he was being gentle about it.
“You coming?” I asked.
The thug waved Fenelon over and whispered something into his ear. A moment later he walked purposely to the Jeep Cherokee, opened the back door, and slid inside. He didn’t say a word.
I turned my attention back to Brand. He was speaking earnestly with the Mexican gunrunner, who seemed to be hanging onto his every syllable.
“Tomorrow,” I said. “We’ll pull the job tomorrow. I’ll have the cash in hand by tomorrow night.”
“See that you do,” Brand said.
He was smirking. I refused to let it annoy me. There were so many better reasons for wanting to kill him.
* * *
I turned the Cherokee and drove down the makeshift road until we hit 425 and started backtracking toward Orr. The old man kept turning his head to look at the thug in the backseat. He wanted to talk but was afraid of being overheard. Finally he just came out with it.
“What are we going to do?” he asked.
“We’re going to do what we always planned on doing,” I said. “Rob the remote vault near Lake Vermilion.”
“Then what?”
“Then take the money to Brand and his Mexican gunrunners and ransom Jillian.”
“Just like that?” The old man was speaking, yet in the back of my mind I could see Chad Bullert. It was to him that I was actually communicating—God help us if he didn’t understand what I was saying.
“This time there won’t be any surprises,” I said. “I’ll take care of Jill, and everybody else can do what comes natural.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“If everyone does what they’re supposed to, there shouldn’t be any problems.” I angled my head so I could see the thug in the rearview mirror. “You got a name?”
“Daniel.”
“Anyone ever call you Danny or Dann-o?”
“No.”
“How did a guy like you end up in a place like this?”
“Circumstances beyond my control.”
“Boy, does that sound familiar. I don’t suppose you want to tell me where we’re going to take the money after we steal it.”
“No.”
“I could make you.”
“I doubt it. Anyway, it would take more time than you have.”
“You’re probably right. Well, in that case, Dann-o, strap on your sneakers.”
Daniel grimaced at the modification of his name, which was fine with me. I wasn’t talking to him anyway.
* * *
We were nearly back at Orr before the old man asked the inevitable question. “What’ll we do first?”
“First, we’re going to Norman’s One Stop and Motel so I can take a leak,” I said. I parked in the same spot as earlier that morning and shut down the Cherokee. “I’ll be right back.”
“I’m going with you,” Daniel said.
“What? Are you my new potty pal?”
Daniel shook his head as if he had now heard everything and was disappointed by the achievement.
I pointed at the old man. “What about him?”
“I stay with you.”
“It’s going to be a long couple of days.”
I left the Cherokee. Daniel followed. He paused only long enough to tell the old man not to do anything stupid. We entered the building, found a door in the back with a sign that read MEN, and went inside. There were two urinals and one stall. I moved to the stall, paused, said, “This is where I draw the line, Daniel,” went inside and locked the door.
I didn’t actually need to use the toilet, yet I went through the motions just the same. Once I was sitting down, I slowly pulled the body bug off of my ribs—I didn’t know what kind of tape the ATF’s tech agent used; whatever it was it hurt like cr
azy coming off. I hoped Daniel would attribute whatever noise I made to something else. After removing the bug, I wrapped it in paper and set it behind the base of the toilet. I would have preferred to keep the bug, but I was afraid that Daniel might discover it—God knows what fresh hell that would bring. I could only hope that Bullert and the badge boys understood the references I had made earlier and would act accordingly.
I put myself back together, flushed the toilet for dramatic effect, and stepped out of the stall. Daniel was leaning against the far wall, his arms folded across his chest and staring at his reflection, a pensive expression on his face. I’ve seen him before—hell, I’ve been him before—the man looking in the mirror wondering who the hell it was looking back. I went to the sink and washed my hands.
“Just out of curiosity, what did you tell Fenelon back there before we left?” I asked.
“I told him that if anything happens to the girl, it had better happen to him first.”
I pulled a couple of paper towels from the dispenser and dried my hands. “You like her, too,” I said.
“You should never have involved her in your schemes.”
“Oh, I didn’t. It was her nitwit husband.”
Daniel moved his hand to the side of his face where Roy had clipped him with the handgun, and for the first time I realized that there wasn’t a mark on him.
“I think I met her husband,” Daniel said.
“Is there going to be a problem about that?”
“Not unless he causes it.”
“Roy’s a hotheaded fellow. But I need him in one piece.”
“It’s like you said before—I’m a professional.”
“Daniel, I think we’re going to get along just fine.”
“I wouldn’t bet my life on it if I were you.”
* * *
The Iron Range Bandits didn’t take the news well. There was plenty of weeping and shouting and angry sounds that reminded me of those days when I was a cop knocking on doors late at night to tell bewildered parents about their children. The language they used—the Bandits didn’t say anything that you couldn’t hear on HBO, yet I found the words truly shocking coming from them. Roy wanted to throw down on Daniel right then and there; Skarda and Jimmy wanted to help—I had to step between them and stay between them for the longest time. It took a lot of talking, a lot of promises, to calm the group, especially Josie, who reminded me more than once that I had claimed there would be nothing to fear until after the job, until after we had the money. I apologized profusely for the mistake, yet that did little to assuage her rage. The old man did his best to help. He kept telling Roy, told anyone who would listen, that Jill hadn’t been hurt. He repeated the words like a mantra—“She’s all right, she’s all right.” I suspected he was talking mostly to himself.
The Last Kind Word Page 23
