Quiver (14 page)

A couple days earlier DeJuan said to Jack, “Yo, welcome back to the famous Timber Lake Cottages. Been thinking. I see timber, don’t see no lake. Theo, where the water at?”

Celeste and Teddy were getting out of the Camaro.

Teddy said, “How do I know?”

Like it was a real question. DeJuan believed, was dogs smarter than Teddy. Maybe not a street mutt, but for sure a Doberman or a purebred poodle. He was thinking of an experiment: switch Teddy’s brain with a poodle’s, see how much smarter he got. Get invited on Letterman and such, bring Teddy out on a leash. “My dawg, check him out.”

He liked fucking with Teddy but really wanted to fuck his girl, fine creamy-skinned bitch with tats all over her pale white perfect body—ugly ones, graphic dark-blue shapes like she belonged to a cult. Had a big motherfucker on her back. Wasn’t just a tat, was a scene—crazy, too. Bitch posing at the
entrance to a cemetery, pumpkins lining an iron fence—huh? The tats hidden under her clothes. Never expect it, looking at her. He was peeking in their room through a crack in the door, saw her coming out of the bathroom naked, bitty little shaved muff like a mustache down there and a nice-sized pair of naturals with pink nipples. Lord God. That’s all he could think of now. Couldn’t get that vision out of his head. Girl had a profound effect on him.

DeJuan was on the porch of his cottage—kicking back in a green metal chair with rusted legs, cleaning his gun, his Sig. He said, “Where the kid at?”

Teddy nodded at the trunk.

“Just going to leave him?”

There were nine cottages that had seen better days—grouped together in threes, separated by stands of birch and cedar—spread out across a couple of acres. They’d rented the last three units: seven, eight and nine, only people staying there. Manager lived in Suttons Bay, said to call if they needed anything.

Jack ducked in his cottage while Teddy and Celeste lifted the kid out of the car. Jack saying he never wanted the mom or kid knowing he was involved. He was the hero—going to come back, keep momma cool till they got the money.

Teddy was walking the little dude to the cottage, stuck his foot out and tripped him. The kid, hands taped behind his back, went down. Sadistic motherfucker grinned, enjoying himself. Man had some strange ways about him.

He said, “Hey, rich kid, watch where you’re going. You got to be more careful.”

Teddy squatted and pulled the kid to his feet and walked him to the middle cottage where they cuffed his hands to a chain bolted to the floor. The chain long enough to stretch to a log bed against the far wall of the room and to the adjoining bathroom—his own crib.

Teddy came out of his cottage and said to DeJuan, “Hey, you leave the ransom note?”

DeJuan opened his eyes big, gave him a surprised look. Said, “Shit, I forgot.”

Teddy said, “Godammit, do I got to do everything?”

DeJuan looked at him and said, “One thing you never have to worry about is this motherfucker doing his job. I’m reliable like FedEx, understand?”

If DeJuan hadn’t told Teddy they needed a ransom note, it never would’ve come up. Hick moron took credit for it, thought it was his idea. DeJuan had modeled the note—the style, anyway—after the one
in
Dirty Harry
, one the psycho sent to the police telling them he had the girl and they had twenty-four hours to deliver the money, the ransom. Words from the newspaper cut out and glued on a piece of paper.

Jack saw it and said, “What’s that for? You don’t need a ransom note, you make a phone call.”

DeJuan had seen a lot of movies and believed this was how it was done. There were rules for certain things and you had to follow them. You kidnap someone, his family expect a note. That’s how it worked.

When he made the phone call, he put his Fubu over the cell, voice coming out all garbled and such, couldn’t tell if he was a southern Illinois sheep-banging bigot or a west Detroit black-power racist.

He got the idea of cutting the kid’s finger or ear off reading about J. Paul Getty’s grandson was kidnapped by Italian terrorists; J. Paul himself worth over a billion at the time. Kidnappers cut the grandson ear off, sent it to his moms. Mail come, there’s a bloody ear in an envelope. That would get your attention, no doubt. He was thinking, no matter what you did it was all about details—mix in a little fact and fiction for dramatic effect.

Now they were waiting for Jack to do his thing.

Bill Wink was working a day shift. He drove out to McCall’s and took a look around. He wanted to make sure the place was locked up and nobody was trying to rob it or vandalize it. He parked on the gravel drive, looked in the front windows. He walked around back, checked the doors and windows—everything locked up tight. He thought he heard a dog bark inside. Looked in the picture window in the big room, didn’t see anyone, person or dog. Maybe he was hearing things—the wind, maybe.

That whole thing about Luke was strange. Taking a bus didn’t wash, either. Taking a bus from where? He’d have to have gotten to Traverse City and how’d he do that? Something wasn’t right. It didn’t make sense. Unless Kate was making the whole thing up—hiding the fact that Luke really was kidnapped. He also considered the possibility that he was overreacting, his cop’s mind looking for a crime where none existed.

He scanned the tree line, spotted the big maple with its high plume of leaves, the tree stand still attached about fifty feet up. He’d run the name Theodore Monroe Hicks on NCIC, found out he’d been arrested five times: robbery armed, grand theft auto twice, assault with intent and a DUI, his only conviction. This Theodore Hicks was a bad dude. Bill read a brief description of each of the charges. Under
assault, it said he hit a man named Owen McCall with an impact wrench and broke his collarbone, Mr. McCall refusing to press charges. There, finally, was a connection. But, what did it mean? What was this Teddy Hicks up to now? He did an all-points on the Camaro Z28, but nothing had come up in the past twenty-four hours. Maybe Teddy had taken off, left the county, but Bill doubted it.

He walked down to the end of the yard, stood on the bluff looking out at the water and down the beach, deserted in both directions, not a soul for as far as he could see. He thought about Kate now, pictured himself having dinner with her, a romantic setting, looking out at the moonlit bay, drinking wine, talking and having fun.

Girls had told him he was nice-looking and he sure had a lot of interesting stories involving police work. He once saved a kitten from a burning building—girls loved that one. And he delivered a baby in the front seat of a pickup truck. That was another one that generated a lot of interest. Seeing that baby’s head pop out of her—Jesus H. Christ—was something he’d never forget. The new mother was so grateful, she named the baby after him: Bill. Bill Cline. Telling these stories made girls think he was caring and sensitive and had gotten him laid
more than a few times. He ended up marrying one of them, a farm girl with big knockers, named Artha.

When he met her he’d said, “I’ve never heard of Artha before. What kind of name is that?”

She said, “Martha without the
M
.”

That became her nickname. He’d say, “How you doing, Martha without the
M
?” She’d giggle and her giant breasts would shake and heave.

The marriage ended after fifteen months, when Artha came home unexpectedly one day and found Bill in bed with a cute little court reporter named Tammi. Artha chased her through the trailer with a butcher knife and then outside and down the highway, Tammi naked, running with her clothes and purse under her arm.

The next day, when Bill was at work, Artha pulled the queen-size mattress off the bed, dragged it out in the yard and doused it with gasoline. She’d torched it along with all Bill’s clothes—every goddamn thing except his spare uniform. He considered having her arrested but decided to let it slide. If that got the anger out of her system, maybe it was worth it.

Next time Kate came back up, he was going to make his move. He looked out at the water and down the
beach. He didn’t want to get ahead of himself, but he could see himself marrying Kate one day and living here. It was more than a feeling he had. He actually believed it was going to happen and it gave him confidence.

On his way to Leland, he told John Mitchell he’d stop and check on the cottages. He’d run into Mitchell the night before, having a beer at the Bluebird Bar, Mitchell saying he’d rented three units to this oddball group, said they was from Dee-troit. Said they was going to do some fishing but didn’t have any equipment.

“That isn’t a crime,” Bill said. “What do you think they’re doing out there?”

“That’s a good question,” Mitchell said. “I don’t know. I’m just glad to have their money, that’s all I can tell you.”

“Want me to check ’em out, make sure the cottages are still standing?”

“If it ain’t too much trouble,” Mitchell said.

DeJuan was on his Mac G5 with the wireless Internet connection, checking out St. Tropez, his next destination. Looking at shots of the beautiful people on they yachts. Saw Jay Z and Beyoncé.
P. Diddy dressed all in white, two hoes competing for his attention. DeJuan imaging himself in the music business, start his own label—Murder Dawg Records—like that. Have the capital to do it now.

It was day motherfucking three and he was ready to get out of Hicksville, cut Ted loose. Dude gave the whole white race a bad rap. Truth be told, he like to be back in his crib with LaRita, watching his flat-screen, smoking on some good. His patience on empty, a little left working on fumes. But then, reminded himself, he was close to collecting what was going to be his biggest payday ever—seven hundred large. And when everything shook loose, all the scenerios played out, it wasn’t inconceivable he take home the whole thing, the mother lode, be set for life. And felt better.

He heard a car pull up, looked out, saw a white deputy sheriff ’s cruiser in the yard. He got up, grabbed his Sig, pushed the safety off and slipped it in his Sean Johns, covered by his warm-up. He closed the laptop and went outside.

He watched the deputy sheriff get out of the car. He wore a brown uniform with short sleeves, showing off his guns.

“Yo, how’s it going, Officer? Perfect day, isn’t it?”
DeJuan said, looking up at the blue sky, not a cloud in it.

Deputy said, “That yours?” checking out his ride.

“1984 Chevrolet Malibu,” DeJuan said.

Deputy said, “You have car trouble the other day?”

“Not that I recall,” DeJuan said. Wondering what he was talking about.

Deputy said, “I saw it parked on Woolsey Lake Road.”

DeJuan, picking up the thread, said, “Had to take a leak, you know, went in the woods.”

“When you’ve got to go …” The deputy grinned. “We don’t see cars like that around here,” he said. “What’s that say on the front?”

“Scarface.” DeJuan had it customized in chrome script on the grille and also on the dash.

“After the movie?”

“No, the gangsta. After Capone.” Man was the gangsta’s gangsta. DeJuan didn’t tell him about the hydraulics and such—twenty grand worth of electric pumps and cylinders powered by twelve batteries. He didn’t tell him ’Face was a scraper, neither. Could do shit was unbelievable—go low, frame on the tarmac—go high, leap six feet off the ground. For real. He didn’t tell him about ghostriding the whip or gas brake dipping, either,
like the cracker deputy knew anything about getting hyphy.

“Where you from?” Deputy said.

“Beautiful downtown Dee-troit.”

“I hear they fixed it up for the Super Bowl.”

“Super Bowl long gone,” DeJuan said. “Look like it old self again.”

Deputy looked strong, in shape, flexing the muscles in his arms.

“What brings you up here?”

“Relax-a-tion,” DeJuan said, stretching the word for emphasis. “Stress relief. Get out of the big city, breathe some clean country air.”

“Good place to do it,” Deputy said. “What kind of work you do?”

Celeste watched DeJuan and the deputy from the front window of the cottage. It was the guy from the other night; she recognized him. Good thing Teddy’d gone to get beer. No reason to call attention to themselves. She wondered what DeJuan was saying to him, the cop grinning like he said something funny.

He hung around, looking at DeJuan’s lowrider, Celeste getting impatient, wishing he’d leave and hoping Teddy didn’t come driving in. And just when
she thought he’d never fucking leave, he got back in his car and went to the end of the property, made a U-turn and came back, going slow, looking around again and took off.

She went in to check on the kid. Opened the door, expected to see him, but he wasn’t on the floor or the bed. The chain was gone. The window was open. Little fucker’d unscrewed the eyebolt.

She called Teddy’s cell. He didn’t answer. Where in the hell was he? She left him a message. “Remember the deputy from the other night? He was just here. We got another problem too. Get back here as fast as you can.”

Teddy came flying in a few minutes later, locked the Z up in a cloud of dust, and ran in the cabin. She and DeJuan were in the kid’s room. Teddy came in with a beer, looked around, said, “Where’s he at?”

Celeste said, “He’s gone.”

Teddy said, “What do you mean, gone?”

“You see him in here?” Celeste said, wondering what he didn’t understand. She pointed to the open window. “He escaped.”

“I leave for fifteen minutes,” Teddy said, “you let him get away.”

Celeste said, “I told you bozos that screw in the floor was a bad idea.”

Teddy said, “Like you know what the hell you’re talking about, huh?” He was mad, spit flying out of his mouth. “Listen, if it had something to do with cooking or sewing, I might’ve asked your opinion. We don’t find that little dick with ears, it’s all over.”

DeJuan said, “Everybody be cool. We find him.”

But he didn’t look like he believed it.

It was two forty-five in the afternoon when Ken Calvert called and said she was all set. The money had been delivered and Kate could stop by for her withdrawal. She went outside looking for Jack, who said he was going exploring. He’d been gone for a while, thirty minutes at least. What the hell was he doing? He knew she was going to get a call and they’d have to be ready.

She stood on the bluff, scanning the shoreline. She didn’t see him. He wasn’t out front either and the bank closed in a little over an hour. She’d have to leave, pick the money up herself. The only problem was the Land Rover. It was too obvious—Bill Wink, if he saw it, would recognize it in a second and then she’d have some explaining to do. She saw the key to Jack’s car on the kitchen counter and decided to take the Lexus. She left Jack a note on the breakfast room table, got in behind the wheel and adjusted the seat. She’d go to the bank, they’d load her up and she’d
come back. It sounded easy, but it didn’t happen that way.

She drove to Traverse City and pulled in behind the bank building just as Ken Calvert told her to. She parked in front of the silver metal door that was the size of a garage door and watched it rise up and retract. She backed into a loading area that had a concrete floor and brick walls and a high ceiling, the metal door closing behind her.

Calvert was waiting with two uniformed guards. The money was on a hand truck, shrink-wrapped in bundles and looked like something you’d get at Costco—buy it in bulk and save.

She got out of the car and glanced at Calvert. He wore a white shirt and a Kelly green tie that reminded her of St. Patrick’s Day, the only day you’d wear a tie that color. He had a clipboard in his pale hands that each had two gold rings, the rings seeming more excessive when she noticed the gold watch and gold ID bracelet on his wrists.

Calvert said, “I thought you were going to bring somebody with you.”

Kate said, “It didn’t work out.”

“You’ve got two million there,” Calvert said. “Let me call the sheriff, arrange for a police escort to your destination. We’re more than a financial institution;
we’re your friend and neighbor. It would be irresponsible of me to allow you to withdraw such a large sum of cash without expressing my concern for your safety.”

“I’ll be fine,” Kate said.

“I’m sure you will, but if anything happens, I want you to know Traverse City Bank and Trust is in no way liable,” Calvert said.

“I understand,” Kate said. And she did. He was just covering his Canadian ass.

He said, “There are a hundred hundred-dollar bills in each banded stack, equaling ten thousand—and a hundred banded stacks in each bundle. A hundred times ten thousand equals a million, if you follow me.”

Kate said, “And two times a million equals two million, if I’m not mistaken.”

He grinned, showing his Chiclet-size teeth that were so white they looked blue.

She signed for the money and the guards put it in the trunk. The metal door rose up, and as she drove out, she saw the Indian, Johnny Crow, behind the wheel of a black Chevy panel van, parked there. Bill Wink had said he was head of security at the casino. So she assumed he was waiting to pull in and drop off or pick up money. She made eye contact with
him, met his gaze for a couple of seconds and drove past him.

Kate was on Bay Shore Road driving out of Traverse City, doing fifty-five, the lake calm and bright blue to her right. She glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a white deputy sheriff ’s cruiser behind her. At first she thought it was Bill Wink, but as the cop car got closer, she could see it wasn’t. Maybe Calvert, disregarding her point of view, called the sheriff ’s department anyway, insisting on a police escort. Or maybe it was a coincidence, just a cop on patrol.

She saw the deputy sheriff pull out and drive up next to her like he was going to pass her—the cop looking over, checking her out—then slowing down and drifting back behind her. She heard bursts of siren and watched him in the rearview mirror and saw the flashers and looked for a place to pull over, but nothing looked good. She slowed and put her turn signal on and took a left on Dumas, a two-lane county road and pulled over. The sheriff ’s deputy followed her and stopped behind her. There were unplowed cornfields on both sides of the road and it smelled like manure.

He got out of his car, put his hat on, and as he
approached, she noticed he had his hand on his gun. She pressed the button and her window went down.

He walked up and said, “Step out of the vehicle.”

He stood behind her so she had to turn her head to see him.

“What’s this all about?”

“You are operating a stolen vehicle,” he said. “Now step out.”

“It isn’t mine,” Kate said. “I borrowed it from a friend.” And as soon as she said it, realized how lame it sounded.

“I’m not going to ask you again,” he said, raising his voice.

So Jack was still involved in his old trade after all. Kate considered the situation. She was driving a stolen car with two million in the trunk. How was she going to explain the car or the money?

She wasn’t.

She couldn’t.

She considered putting it in gear, let the hard-ass cop chase her down and try catch and her. At Owen’s suggestion, she’d gone to an advanced driving school and felt confident behind the wheel, believed she could give this young rural police officer a run for his money. But she rejected the notion as being too risky. She didn’t want to put anyone else’s life in danger.
She had a better idea. She slid the Beretta out of her purse and put it in her jacket pocket.

The cop opened the door now.

“You’re under arrest,” he said. He had his hand on his gun, but didn’t draw it from the holster.

She stepped out on the blacktop road. Standing next to him, he looked like a Bill Wink clone—same height and build, same two-tone uniform. He pushed her against the front fender and bent her over the hood.

He said, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

He kicked her feet apart and ran his hands up her legs, and the inside of her thighs, getting a good feel.

She said, “What’re you doing?”

“Seeing if you got any weapons.”

“Is this how you get your kicks?”

“I’m the law, I can do whatever I want.”

He said it like he believed it.

Kate knew it was now or never. He reached inside her jacket, ran his hands up her sides, touched her breasts, pawed her like a teenager feeling up his girlfriend for the first time. She turned now, and in one compact motion brought the Beretta out of her pocket and stuck the barrel in the center of his chest.
His cockiness vanished in a split second. He looked surprised and afraid.

Kate said, “Think you can do anything you want, huh?”

“I didn’t mean it,” he said.

“You make a habit of doing things you don’t mean?”

He said, “Listen, I’ve got a wife and two little ones at home.” The hard guy tone gone now, replaced by concern.

Kate said, “You look worried and you should be. If you try anything else I’m going do your wife a favor and shoot you. Give me your gun.”

He undid the strap on top of his holster and handed her his Glock—the shape unmistakable, the big G in script on the barrel—passing it to her with his thumb and index finger on the handle—showing her he wasn’t going to try anything. She grabbed the gun and dropped it in the pocket of her suede coat.

She said, “We’re going to walk over to your car now. You want to see the kids tonight? Don’t do anything stupid like you’ve already done. I feel bad for your wife—married to someone gets his kicks like that—and your kids. What kind of pervert dad are you?”

She escorted him to his car and opened the door. “Give me your keys.”

He reached in his pocket and handed them to her. Then he took his hat off and got in behind the wheel and she went around and got in the front passenger seat. He looked young without the hat—only a few years older than Luke. She aimed the Beretta at him and said, “Give me your handcuffs.”

He took them out of a leather compartment on his duty belt and handed them to her.

“Where’s the key?”

He gave that to her too, and she told him to cuff his hands through the steering wheel and he did and now he looked foolish, with his brush cut and pimples—like a high school athlete who’d gotten in trouble.

“Driving a stolen vehicle and using deadly force to resist arrest. I’d say you’re in a whole lot of trouble,” the deputy said. He grinned at her now. “They’re going to catch you—you know that. Let me go, I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“I’d worry more about my own situation if I were you,” Kate said. “I’d like to hear you explain how you lost your weapon and were taken hostage by a woman.” She noticed his nametag for the first time.
“How’s that going to look on your record, impact your career, Deputy Lamborne?”

Kate opened the door and got out and moved to the Lexus and got in. There was no traffic, no one around. She took a series of arrow-straight county roads back to Cathead Bay—slowing down at one point, throwing Deputy Lamborne’s Glock into a wooded area—and although it was a shortcut, it still took thirty minutes to get back to the lodge: time spent thinking about Luke, hoping he was okay and how she was going to deal with Jack.

He came out of the lodge grinning as soon as she pulled up.

“Why’d you leave without me?”

Luke ran till his lungs were about to explode. He was surprised, thought he was in shape, having played tennis since he was a little kid. It was the chain that weighed him down, made him tired. It didn’t feel like anything at first and now felt heavier than a cinder block. He tried to position it so it didn’t make noise, but it was impossible. It was the handcuffs too, metal digging into his wrists, drawing blood in two places.

Once he’d been able to loosen the eyebolt, it was easy. He waited, listening till he didn’t hear them, and
unscrewed it all the way. He coiled the chain into a circle and slipped it over his shoulder. He unlocked the window and lifted it open and slid out, dropped to the ground.

The sky was clear blue, sun up high as he moved through heavy woods, feet crunching on dry leaves. He slowed his pace, stopping, looking back, thinking that if they were coming after him, he’d hear them, wouldn’t he? He didn’t—just the rustle of the wind coming through the trees and an occasional formation of ducks quacking overhead.

It was getting hot. He felt beads of sweat run down his forehead and cheeks. He wiped his face on the sleeve of his flannel shirt. He was conscious of the gamey smell of his own body after not showering for three days, and the heavy sound of his own breathing.

He was afraid, but his fear went to another level when he heard Camo’s booming voice behind him like a megaphone blaring through the trees.

“I’m going to find you—you little cocksucker—and I’m going to fuck you up.”

Luke pictured Camo’s face, with its square cartoon jaw and sadistic grin—and he picked up his pace. He had a sense of where he was, seeing the map of the Leelanau Peninsula in his head and reckoning the
location of the cottages, about halfway between Omena and Northport, thinking he was heading east and he’d see the lake soon.

He stopped sometime later and heard them, and they sounded close. Luke ducked low and pressed himself against a stand of white birch, getting bark dust on his shirt. He saw Camo and the girl pass right by him, a few feet away—both carrying pistols.

Camo said, “I’m going to kill that little fucker.”

The girl said, “Can you keep your voice down till we find him? He could be anywhere in here.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Camo said.

The girl said, “Go ahead, then. You’ve probably already fucked it up anyway.”

Luke held his breath, didn’t make a sound even as an early-season mosquito drilled into his hand, sucking his blood. He wondered where the black guy was, wondered if he was sneaking up right now, about to surprise him.

Luke shifted his weight and the chain rattled.

Camo stopped and said, “What was that?”

The girl said, “What was what?”

“I heard something.”

“No shit,” the girl said. “We’re in the woods. You’re going to hear all kinds of things.”

Camo started back toward the birch trees. Luke
ducked down, disappearing in a tangle of alder and held his breath, watching Camo’s feet coming toward him—black motorcycle boots and jeaned legs moving through heavy ground cover. Camo stopped a few feet from his head, standing there, not making a sound. Luke glanced up through the foliage and saw his face, eyes darting, scoping the scene. He held a big chrome-plated automatic in his hand, hanging at arm’s length, Luke below him, right there, and he didn’t look down. Not once.

The girl broke the silence. She said, “Anytime you’re ready. He’s just putting more distance between us.”

Camo turned now and walked back toward her. Luke waited till they were out of sight, saw them disappear in the trees and then waited a few more minutes before he made his move, heading in the direction of the lake, figuring he could run down the beach, break into a cottage, and call the police.

He took off running and was surprised when he came to a clearing—but it wasn’t a clearing. It was a county road cutting across the peninsula a few miles west of the cottages. He was all turned around. He’d gone in the wrong direction.

DeJuan was listening to Keak do “White Ts, Blue Jeans, and Nikes,” scanning the tree line, driving by in Scarface, doing twenty, exhaust of the Malibu popping some rumble. Thinking how fast a situation could change. Thirty minutes earlier he was going to be rich, counting the money. But he wasn’t going to get nothing, they didn’t find the kid, find him quick.

Looking out at the hood he needed a carwash, had pine needles and shit all over his custom gold metalflake paintwork, color called Aztec bullion, motherfucker had real gold in it—straight up.

DeJuan was driving slow, creepin’, glancing at the wall of trees to his right. Saw something up ahead, dude appear coming out of the woods, running toward him, moving his arms like he trying to signal him. Was the kid, and as DeJuan drove up, you should’ve seen the look on the kid’s face, he saw who it was.