Envy the Night (5 page)

She’d told him to redo the clear coat on the Mazda. Redo it, like he’d painted the thing the wrong color or something. Hell with that. Somebody needed to look
at the Lexus, and Jerry didn’t think Nora was the one for the job. Car all beat up like that, there was some work just to figure out what all was wrong. If she wanted the Mazda fooled with again, she could wait till Monday, or do it her damn self.

Jerry found the keys to the Lexus and pulled it into the shop.
Shee-it,
what a car. More bells and whistles than anything he’d seen. More than anything he’d want, too.

Once he had the car inside, he got to work inspecting the damage. Hood would need to be replaced, plus the front quarter panel, and the front passenger door. Now, if it were Jerry’s car he’d probably handle that door and the quarter panel with a liberal amount of Bondo, a spray gun, and a buffer. But he didn’t imagine the Lexus owner would agree.

Problem with these fancy new machines was all the shit you couldn’t see. Sensors and computer chips and whatnot. Some of them would be up under the bumper, so he’d have to figure out what the hell they all did when he took that off. Probably want to replace the bumper assembly, too. Make a few extra bucks, get the job done right. Nora herself would appreciate that outlook, if she ever climbed down off her damn broomstick to listen to him.

He dropped onto his back and slid beneath the front of the car, wrench in hand. Way the front was punched in, there could be some damage to the internal workings. He got the splash shield off and—wait a second, what in the hell was this?

A thin black box, about the size of a remote control but without the buttons, was mounted on the bumper reinforcement. One of those sensors he’d been worrying about? Those were usually wired in, though, and this thing just sat there by itself. Jerry tapped at it gently with the wrench, and the thing slid around a bit. Reached out and got his fingers around it and pulled. Popped right off. It was held on with a damn magnet. Two thin wires trailed out of it, and he followed them with his fingers, found another box, this one larger, and popped it free, too.

Pushing back out from under the car, Jerry sat up and studied his find. The smaller device was plain black plastic with a magnet on the back and a small red LED light in the center. The other thing, the bigger one, looked like some sort of battery pack. First thing he thought of was one of those GPS units. Buddy of his, Steve Gomes, had one he took hunting. Tracked your position. The Lexus had a navigation system, so it would need a GPS unit, but wasn’t that inside the computer?

That’s when he got it. The magnets were there so you could attach the thing to the underside of the car, on the frame. Attach it without the owner knowing.
But whoever put this one on, they went even a bit further. Popped out the bolts and got it inside the splash shield on the bumper reinforcement, where it would be protected from water and road debris and couldn’t possibly fall off.

“Who are you, friend?” he said, bouncing the black box in his hand and staring at the Lexus. Nora said the guy gave her cash, didn’t show a driver’s license or credit card, anything with his name on it. Stupid of her to let him go like that, no proof of identity, but two grand in cash had a way of convincing even the strictest person to let a few details slide. Couple kinds of people in this world liked to move without identification, and a smaller number of those were going to have someone tracking them. Drug dealer, maybe? Bank robber? Could there be cops on the way, following him with this gadget?

Jerry walked into the office with the device in his hand, opened the mini fridge, and pulled out a can of Dr Pepper. Jerry drank three or four Dr Peppers a day. Kept him fresh. He dropped into the chair behind the desk and cracked the top on the can, took a long swallow, and considered his find. No matter the explanation for the black box’s presence, Nora was going to be damn interested in it, and, possibly, so would the cops. Should they call the cops, though? Did they have any reason to? Maybe not. Maybe it was best just to pretend they’d never seen the thing. He could put it back inside the splash shield, send it on its way without ever knowing what it was doing there. That would be Nora’s call to make, not his.

He should have heard the husky growl of the tow truck engine, but the black box had taken his mind deep into other places, and he missed it. When Nora entered the office, he was still in her chair, with his boots propped up on her desk and the soda can in hand. Her face twisted at the sight.

“Tell me,” she said, “that the Mazda is done, Jerry.”

“Listen, Nora—”

“No.” She leaned over and slapped at his boot, trying to knock it off the desk. His foot didn’t budge. “I will not
listen,
because I’ve heard them all already. Every excuse and problem and complaint that you utter. None of them are new, not anymore.”

“Wait a sec—”

“If my father had
any
idea the sort of work ethic you exhibit down here, he’d be disgusted. Absolutely disgusted. The last thing I said before I left was that I wanted you to finish that Mazda, and instead you spend your time sitting at
my
desk drinking a soda?”

“I just sat down two seconds ago. Reason was, when I started taking that Lexus apart . . .” The little black box was in the hand not occupied by the Dr
Pepper. He started to lift it above the desk, thinking to drop it in front of her, shut her up, but she started in again.

“Lexus? I didn’t ask you to do a thing to that Lexus, Jerry! I specifically said the Mazda needed to come first. What can’t you follow about that?”

Jerry kept his hand below the desk, closed his fingers around the black box, felt his jaw clamp tight.

“Would you
please
go get some work done?” Nora said. “Please do what I already asked?”

He slipped his hand into the pocket of his coveralls, dropped the plastic device inside, and swung his boots off the desk and to the floor.

“Yes, sir, boss. Don’t let me bother you anymore.”

On his way back through the shop he stopped at his locker, placed the tracking device inside, then slammed the door shut and locked it.

__________

E
zra Ballard, a few hundred yards out on the lake, spotted the blue car shortly after noon and knew that the two on the island were no longer alone. The car, some sort of beat-up Jeep, was parked in the woods across from the island cabin—a cabin that had, for almost two days, been home to a gray-haired man and a blond woman. Technically, that was Ezra’s business. He didn’t own the cabin or the island, but for many years he’d been entrusted with their care. Same with the cabin down on the point, less than two miles away. Two cabins that, at least in Ezra’s mind, still belonged to men who’d been buried long ago.

Twice a year the Temple boy mailed Ezra a short note with five hundred dollars inside. The note always read
Thanks for keeping an eye on the place
; the money was always in five one-hundred-dollar bills, the envelope always void of a return address, but a phone number would be included on the note. Ezra would spend the cash on whatever expenses he might encounter keeping the cabin in good shape and save the rest. Seven years young Frank had kept that up, and though Ezra wondered when he’d return to the place, he never wondered
if
. The boy—hell, he wasn’t a boy anymore, was he?—would be back, but not until he was ready. Maybe Ezra would still be around, maybe not. Something like that, it took time to make your peace with it.

Circumstances with the Temple cabin had been consistent, and Frank’s boy
seemed to understand the situation, had made no effort to contact a Realtor or a lawyer. The Matteson cabin, here on the island, was a different matter. After Dan died, Ezra hadn’t heard a word from the family. Sent a few letters, made a few phone calls, and finally received a curt order to ready the place for sale—this from the son, Devin. When Ezra explained that the island couldn’t be sold—it was part of a legacy trust that would either remain with the family or revert to the state, and good luck convincing a judge to break that—Devin swore at him and hung up. Never called again. This was before Frank Temple had taken his own life and Devin’s role in that situation became clear, before a few conversations with Frank’s son that Ezra probably never should have allowed to take place, before a final call that Ezra had made to Devin.

In the years that followed that last call, Ezra had never heard from Devin or anyone else about the island. He hadn’t expected to, though. His message had been succinct enough: If Devin came back, Ezra would kill him. For seven years it seemed that Devin had believed the promise, and he damn well should have. Ezra was not a man given to idle threats, and he certainly was not a man with light regard for killing. Not anymore.

Though the cabin had sat empty for years, Ezra kept the place in shape, paying property taxes and all expenses out of his own pocket. Nobody other than Ezra had been inside until this week. Just two days ago a bizarre phone message had been left, someone claiming to be Devin telling Ezra the cabin needed to be “opened up for guests.”

The call had sucked the breath from Ezra’s lungs, the brazenness of it, the
audacity
almost more than he could get his head around. He’d never expected to see Devin again, believed that the island cabin would sit empty until after Ezra was gone from the world, and even in the corner of his mind that recognized there was at least a
chance
that Devin might show up, he never imagined a call like that. So casual, so flip. A taunt, like after all these years he’d decided Ezra was a harmless old man.

Ezra had called Frank’s son—probably a poor choice but, again, there was a promise to be kept—and then visitors had arrived at the island, but Devin was not among them. Not yet.

Now there was this second vehicle. With opening weekend of the fishing season a mere week away, Ezra had decided to run some of the bays and islands, getting depth readings and trying to find new spots to catch walleye. It was on his first run across the lake that he’d noticed the car, and now he’d spent most of the afternoon anchored off the opposite shore, using a pair of binoculars to watch the island. His first idea was that there had been a new
arrival. That changed around midafternoon, when the gray-haired man moved the car.

He and the woman had arrived in a Lexus SUV that had disappeared this morning. Now the gray-haired man took his boat back across the inlet, got into the blue car, and drove it out of the mud and back up the hill. At the top of the hill, he went off the road and into the grass, right into the pines. Drove it as far into the trees as he could, till the boughs swept over the roof and pushed against the side of the car to the point that he had trouble opening the door to get back out. Only reason you parked a car like that was to hide it. He’d gone too far, though; the car was hidden from the logging road, but he’d driven it right up to the edge of the tree line, so the sun caught it and reflected the glare of glass and metal across the lake. Hard to see unless you were on the water. Hard to see unless you were Ezra.

Ezra had been on the Willow for most of forty years now, taking fish out of the lake’s waters and deer and bear out of its surrounding woods. Best guide in Oneida County, that was what people said. The people were right, too. At least when it came to hunting. Out in the woods with a rifle in hand, there wasn’t anybody better than Ezra. Thing was, he preferred fishing. He was good at it, sure, but not the natural he seemed to be when it came to stalking prey with a gun.

This was about to become a busy time of year, too. The season opened for walleye, pike, bass, and the other game fish on the first Saturday of May, which was in one week. From that point on, Ezra had a full calendar. It was no time to worry about a cabin that hadn’t been used in years. But there sat that damn car, shining against the blanket of trees, inviting everybody and their brother to slow a boat and stare at it and wonder if someone was using the Matteson island. Questions would be headed his way, and maybe he should have some answers ready when they did. Problem was, this gray-haired guy clearly wanted that car hidden, and of the men Ezra had known who hid cars, exactly zero of them were guys he wanted to deal with.

It being Friday, and a full workload arriving out of the blue like that, Nora was in a good mood as the afternoon wore down. Good enough mood that after she’d towed the Jeep in, she picked up lunch for Jerry, one of those Angus burgers he favored. An obvious peace offering, and one that seemed to make Jerry feel awkward, shuffling around and trying to stay mad at her for that oh-so-demanding request to do his job correctly. They didn’t talk much for the rest of the day, but there were no blowups, either.

She spent the afternoon with the computer, going over finances. It was her own laptop, and she’d devoted countless hours to slowly transferring all of the paper files Bud Stafford had used. Tedious work, yes, but now they were more organized, more efficient—and lacking enough jobs to make it pay off.

Jerry had given her his damage assessment on the Lexus. “Uh, you got your quarter-panel issues, you know, and you gotta get down in there, too, plus there’s the light and your, uh, you know the bumper issues, plus there’s the airbag and your, uh . . .”

From that she managed to cull an actual estimate, printed it out, nice and official. She was reviewing it when someone pulled into the front parking lot, got out of the car without shutting the engine off, and opened the office door. Four o’clock on Friday afternoon was an unusual time for business.

The visitor came through the door and stopped, ignoring Nora to look around the room with open curiosity, as if he were on a museum tour. Big guy, too, a fancy knit T-shirt stretched over his chest and shoulders, loose jacket over that.

“Can I help you?” she said.

He had a bizarre silver belt buckle, a sort of rippled pattern, like latticework. Not ridiculously large like some of those western things, but ornate, flashy. Nora had always found that a man who believed a belt buckle should be a fashion statement was not her kind of man.