The Last Kind Word

by David Housewright

  As well they should be, my inner voice said.

  I glanced at my watch again. 7:44 P.M. with about an hour and twenty minutes of sunlight left. By then we had all stripped down to swimsuits and T-shirts; I was still wearing Skarda’s sneakers, and Jimmy’s cell phone was in my pocket.

  “Where’s the beer?” I asked. My companions looked at me as if I were insane. “You didn’t bring the beer?”

  “We thought you were kidding,” Liz said.

  “We’re supposed to be a party boat, remember?”

  Josie gave me the same smile she had the morning she came into my bedroom, the one that suggested she had me all figured out. I hadn’t realized she was sitting on a cooler until she stood and opened it. She removed two Leinies, twisted off the caps to both, and gave me a bottle. The others helped themselves. The pontoon had an AM/FM radio, and I dialed in WELY. It was playing Bruce Springsteen.

  “I saw him once at the old Civic Center in St. Paul when I was a kid,” I said. “Best rock concert ever.”

  “I thought you were a jazz guy,” Josie said.

  “We were all young once. Listen. There are two ways to do this. One is sly and sneaky. The other is loud and boisterous. Loud and boisterous is more fun.”

  “If you say so.”

  I eased the throttle forward until the pontoon boat was skimming across the lake as fast as it could. At the same time, I cranked the volume on the radio and started singing along with the Boss—“Tramps like us, baby we were born to run…”

  SIXTEEN

  I guided the boat across Pike Bay past the Tower Municipal Airport—Jimmy was excited to see a couple of single-engine planes land—and worked through a wide, meandering channel into the enormous main body of Lake Vermilion. The light wind died away as the sun began to set. The surface of the lake became smooth and quiet; the distant islands turned to shimmering shards of emerald. We hugged the shoreline, following it westward.

  Along the way we crossed the wake of a variety of fishing boats, cruisers, and pontoons. The occupants waved at us and we waved at them because that’s what people do in Minnesota. That changed when a boat sped toward us straight out of the sun. There was a badge painted on the bow. The Bandits became desperate for me to turn and run. I refused to alter course. Skarda moved to my side as if he wanted to commandeer the wheel. The boat changed course to pass us on the starboard side. The badge became the emblem of the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources. The boat driver was in uniform—tan shirt, green shorts, and aviator sunglasses. The wind rippled his hair, and I was sure he thought he looked cool.

  “Wave,” I said, and the girls did, standing at the bow. The conservation officer smiled and waved back. Three attractive women in swimsuits, you would have smiled and waved, too.

  I gave Skarda what I hoped was a steely glare.

  “You mutinous dog,” I said. He didn’t respond. “Charles Laughton? Mutiny on the Bounty? Doesn’t anybody here watch Turner Classic Movies?”

  “Let me guess,” Josie said. “It’s the only channel God approves of.”

  We kept cruising west, bypassing the mouth of Everett Bay, until we reached the public boat landing near the Forest Lane Resort. The old man was sitting inside his fifteen-year-old Chevy Silverado; it was parked next to Josie’s Taurus and Jimmy’s old Cadillac. When he saw the pontoon, he hopped out of the cab and gave us a wave. There was another boat in front of us, so we had to wait. While we waited, I moved the nose of the pontoon close in. Roy jumped into the water, waded to the shore, and climbed into the pickup truck. The stockbroker’s boat trailer was hitched to its rear bumper. When our turn came, Roy expertly maneuvered the Silverado backward until the trailer was in the lake, its wheels underwater. I manipulated the pontoon until its bow kissed the rubber rollers mounted on the rear of the trailer. Everyone left the boat; we connected it to a winch, pulled the boat onto the trailer, and drove the truck up the boat ramp until the trailer was completely out of the water. The pontoon was quickly secured.

  “Now what?” the old man wanted to know.

  Before I could answer, Daniel waved me toward the cab of the Silverado. “You drive,” he said.

  “That, I guess,” I said.

  “I’m coming with,” Roy insisted.

  “No,” Daniel said.

  “Listen, you…”

  Roy grabbed his arm. Daniel spun to his right, brought his fist up, and hit the ex-soldier on the point of his jaw. Roy fell against the boat landing’s concrete apron like someone had tossed him out of a second-story window. Claire was the first to reach his side. Roy was conscious but groggy. He said something; I don’t know what. Claire cradled his head in her lap and screamed at Daniel, “You didn’t need to do that.”

  I was glad Jill wasn’t there to see it. On the other hand, the stripper was starting to grow on me.

  The other Bandits agreed with Claire. Daniel was having none of it, though.

  “You people need to go home,” Daniel said. “You need to wise up. Stop pretending you’re something you’re not.” He pointed at Roy. “I promise I’ll bring his wife home safe and sound, and I always keep my promises.” He pointed at me. “Now get in the goddamn truck.”

  * * *

  We found Everett Bay Road and followed it until it became Old Highway 77. It was slow going. The Silverado was willing despite its age, yet we were asking it to lug a wide, 2,800-pound pontoon boat down the road—not to mention the weight of the motor and all that money stashed in the lockers. I couldn’t get the speed up much past fifty miles per hour before the entire rig started to shudder. Several times I asked Daniel where we were going. He had nothing to say until we reached Vermilion Drive.

  “Turn right,” he said.

  I did. By then the sun was nearly down and the world had turned to a sorrowful gray. The truck’s headlights caught a sign. Vermilion Drive was the local name for County Highway 24.

  “Ahh,” I said. “We’re heading back to Brand’s seaplane base.”

  “You’re a smart guy, Dyson…” Daniel said.

  “You think?”

  “But not smart enough.” To emphasize his point, Daniel produced a small-caliber automatic and pointed it at me.

  “Really?” I said. “I thought you’d wait at least until we got to Buyck before pulling on me.”

  “You knew I had a gun?”

  “’Course I did. I’m a smart guy. You said so yourself.”

  “Not smart enough,” Daniel repeated. “Give me the SIG.”

  “Hmm? What?”

  “SIG Sauer P228 nine-millimeter. It’s in that little storage compartment attached to the side of the door.”

  I hesitated for a beat, wondering how to play it, realized there was only one way, reached down into the compartment, grabbed the SIG by the barrel, and handed it to Daniel. He opened the passenger window and tossed the gun into a ditch.

  “Now the cell phone. Give it to me.”

  “My cell phone. Why would you want that?”

  “You built two bombs. Do you actually think I’m stupid enough to believe you made the second to use as a spare?”

  “Always be prepared…”

  “You hid it in the pontoon boat, Dyson. That’s why you left the cabin late last night when you thought I was asleep; you went to hide it. If things don’t go your way, you intend to blow up the money, or at least threaten to. Am I right?”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time. Look, Daniel. I need leverage to make sure the girl is safe. Brand—I don’t trust him. Do you?”

  “I wouldn’t trust Brand as far as I could throw him. He likes to fuck with people. He lies for fun.”

  “So you understand…”

  “Give me the phone.”

  “The girl…”

  “The girl will be fine. You have my word on that. As for you—I can’t make any promises there.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Now give it up.”

  I pulled Jimmy’s cell phone out of my pocket and hand
ed it to Daniel. He threw that out the window, too.

  * * *

  It was difficult getting the pontoon boat down the makeshift road once we reached Crane Lake. The trailer kept hopping across ruts and potholes, throwing the boat up against the trees that lined the narrow path—paint and tree bark seemed to be scraped off equally. Finally we broke into the clearing. The pickup’s headlights told me that there were six men gathered around a fire pit; the flames were bright enough to illuminate their faces, yet little else. Three men were sitting in canvas chairs—Brand, Fenelon, and the Mexican. From the way they cradled their AKs, I guessed the three men who were standing belonged to the gunrunner. The seaplane was tied to the dock, its engine facing the lake. The Subaru Forester and Chevy Malibu were parked on the left side of the clearing like before. Deputies James and Williams and their cruiser were nowhere to be seen. I knew exactly what that meant.

  I swung the truck and trailer in a wide arc to the right, stopping only when the trailer was settled next to the wooden shack. The shack was open like before, and I thought, that’s where the canvas chairs came from. Off went the pickup’s headlights and engine. I didn’t realize how big and bright the moon was until I climbed out of the cab. Daniel continued to point his gun at me while we moved toward the fire.

  “Do yourself a favor,” I told him. “Don’t stand too close.”

  “Oh, I won’t.”

  “Protect the girl.”

  “I said I would.”

  The Mexican’s three henchmen moved into flanking positions as we approached, one to my right and the others to my left, stopping when they found an angle that would allow them to fire on me without hitting each other. I had the distinct impression they knew exactly what they were doing.

  “Veo que trajiste a tus hombres,” I told the Mexican.

  I heard my words echoed in English—“I see you brought your men”—something I found quite disconcerting, until I noticed Fenelon whispering into Brand’s ear.

  “Y bastantes armas también,” the Mexican said.

  “And plenty of guns, too,” Fenelon repeated.

  We stopped a few yards short of the fire pit. Daniel backed away while still holding his gun on me—I hadn’t asked him to move for his safety, but for mine. Brand remained sitting in his canvas chair. The flames from the fire pit reflected in his face, making him look like a movie villain. All he needed was a white cat to stroke.

  “I take it I’m not to be arrested, then,” I said.

  “You’re referring to Deputies James and Williams,” Brand said. “We decided not to include them in our transaction. I hope you don’t mind. Their presence made my partner nervous.”

  The fire gave Brand’s teeth an orange glow when he smiled. I glanced at the Mexican. He wasn’t smiling at all.

  Brand wagged a finger at me. “Trying to turn my friend against me, that was a bold move, Dyson.”

  “Mátenlo,” the Mexican said.

  “Kill him,” Fenelon repeated. He leaned in when he spoke, and I could see his battered face. Someone had worked him over good and proper—the sight answered all of my questions.

  “Wait, wait,” Brand said—which was exactly what I was going to say. “Daniel, how did it go?”

  “Perfectly. Almost too perfectly.”

  “The money?”

  “It’s hidden inside the lockers on the pontoon boat.”

  “How much?” asked the Mexican.

  “Won’t know until we count it but it’s—substantial.”

  “I do not know that word.”

  “Cómo no,” Fenelon said.

  While they were talking I cautiously reached into the left-hand pocket of the swimsuit I was still wearing and produced my cell phone—the one I had been using ever since I arrived in the northland, the one no one else knew about.

  “Now you can kill him,” Brand said.

  The Mexicans raised their assault rifles. I raised my hand. The light from the cell phone shone like a small flashlight.

  “Are you guys in a hurry?” I was speaking loudly, almost screaming. “Do you have a bus to catch?”

  “Don’t,” Daniel shouted. “Hold your fire, hold your fire.”

  The henchmen didn’t lower their rifles. On the other hand, they didn’t shoot, either, so I had that going for me.

  “¿Qué es esto?” the Mexican asked, and then translated for himself—“What is this?”

  “Daniel?” Brand asked.

  “Goddamn sonuvabitch,” Daniel answered.

  “Daniel, what?”

  “I have a bomb wired to a cell phone detonator,” I said. “Any sudden moves and I’ll blow up the money, the boat, that shed filled with aviation fuel, and maybe some of you. It’ll be one helluva an explosion, I promise. The CBP guys at the inspection station across the lake should have no problem seeing it.”

  Everyone was standing now. Brand moved to Daniel’s side and grabbed him by the arm. “Is this true?” he asked.

  Daniel pulled his arm away. “I thought I got his cell phone.”

  “Two bombs, two cells,” I said.

  “You let him bring a bomb here?” Brand said.

  “We must kill him,” the Mexican said. He was speaking English so no one would misunderstand. I did, too.

  “Hombre, we had a deal,” I said. “The money for the girl. Bring me the girl. Do it now. You can keep the money.”

  No one looked like they believed me. Brand nodded his head, though, and Fenelon quickly crossed the clearing to the Subaru. A few moments later, he led Jill by the elbow to the fire. Brand intercepted him, grabbed the girl, and pushed her toward me. She stumbled. Instead of attempting to catch her I stepped away and let her fall. Brand and the Mexicans flinched like defensive linemen waiting for the ball to be snapped yet did not move.

  “You sonuvabitch,” Brand said.

  “Don’t call me names, John. I don’t like it.”

  “You think you’re getting away with something?”

  Jill rose slowly from the ground and stood by my side. She was still wearing the soiled nightgown; she looked dirty and worn. I spoke to her in a low voice without taking my eyes off of Brand and the Mexican.

  “How you doing, sweetie?” I asked.

  “I’m okay.”

  “You don’t sound okay.”

  “I bet I look worse.”

  A sense of humor, my inner voice said. Amazing.

  “You got the girl like I promised,” Brand said. “Now give me the phone.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “We should kill him,” the Mexican said.

  “All I have to do is tap the button and all that money burns.”

  “You will die.”

  “You’re going to kill me anyway—you keep saying so.”

  “The money,” Brand said. “We need to think about the money.”

  “You promised millions,” the Mexican said.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “In the meantime,” I said, “everyone move to the fire. Do it now.”

  The Mexican regarded me for a long moment, then gestured for his men to gather around the fire pit. Both Brand and Daniel hesitated before joining them. When he realized he was standing alone, Fenelon joined the group, yet not before saying, “I’m sorry.” I actually felt sympathy for him.

  “Is this what you call a Mexican standoff?” the gunrunner asked.

  “In a manner of speaking,” I said. My arm was getting tired holding the cell in the air. I refused to lower it because I wanted them all to appreciate the danger; I didn’t want anyone getting careless. “This is what we’re going to do. You’re going to give me the keys to the Malibu. Jill and I will take the car and drive away. As soon as we’re gone, Daniel can disarm the bomb. He knows how. Everybody gets what they want. Simple.”

  “No,” Brand said.

  I ignored him and continued to talk to the Mexican. “You and your amigos can climb into your plane and fly back to wherever you came from with a couple hundred pounds of U.S. curr
ency.”

  “No,” Brand repeated.

  The Mexican turned his back to me and spoke quietly to Brand. I couldn’t hear exactly what he said, but his tone of voice suggested that he was questioning Brand’s judgment. While they were discussing the matter, I whispered to Jill.

  “In a minute, they’re going to light up this clearing like Target Field. As soon as they do, you and I are going to make a run for the dock and jump into the lake. Cannonball, don’t dive—we don’t know how deep the water is.”

  “We won’t get away doing that,” Jill said.

  “We’re not trying to get away. We’re trying to get out of the line of fire.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Once we’re in the water, we’ll swim under the dock and wait until it’s over.”

  “Until what’s over?”

  I took Jill’s hand. I had hoped to give it a reassuring squeeze, but my grip was far too tight for that.

  “Dammit, Chad,” I said. “They’re all standing in the open in a frickin’ group, no less. What the hell are you waiting for?”

  “Who are you talking to?” Jill wanted to know.

  “The man on the other end of the phone.”

  “What man?”

  Daniel overheard us, although I didn’t think he understood exactly what we were saying. He gripped his gun with both hands and brought it up, yet he didn’t point it at us. Instead, he peered into the darkness.

  “Something’s wrong,” he said.

  Brand waved at him the way parents dismiss children who interrupt their conversations. When they finished talking, both he and the Mexican turned to face us.

  “Mr. Dyson, we find your terms unacceptable,” Brand said.

  “I’m open to suggestions.”

  “I’m going to kill you.”

  “Ahh…”

  “One way or the other, you’re a dead man. If you want to take the money with you, that’s your choice. If you give me the phone instead, I promise I’ll let the girl live. Daniel will take her home. I’m not worried about her testifying because she knows what I’ll do to her family if she does. If you don’t give me the phone, I will kill you both.”