The Last Kind Word (29 page)

“The others wouldn't have been hurt.”

I flashed on Josie's encounter with Deputy Williams. “If you say so.”

“Besides, you said it was okay to look out for yourself. On the deck, you said…”

For the first time since I arrived in the northland, I lost my temper.

“It's your family, you sonuvabitch,” I shouted. “It's your son and daughter, your niece and nephew, and all the people they love. You take care of yourself only after you take care of them. What the hell is the matter with you?”

“I couldn't think of no other way.”

“Then you didn't think hard enough.”

“Dyson—”

“Don't talk anymore.”

“You don't know what it's like getting old and havin' nothin'.”

“I'm serious, old man. Not another word.”

He didn't speak, but he made a lot of breathing sounds meant to convey the emotional anguish he was suffering. I ignored him the best I could until we pulled into the parking lot of Norman's One Stop and Motel off Highway 53. It was part motel, part Clark gas station—another business built to resemble a log cabin.

“I'll be right back,” I said. “Stay here. Or leave. I don't care.” I made a production out of removing the key from the ignition so he knew if he left he'd be doing it on foot. “Look, old man,” I said—a parting shot. “I haven't said anything to your family, and I'm not going to. I'll leave it to you to decide what's best.”

I left the Cherokee, walked inside Norman's One Stop, and was immediately surrounded by bait, tackle, sweatshirts, ball caps, automotive supplies, toiletries, soft drinks, and snacks. In the center of the snack area near the ceiling-high cooler was a metal patio table with a glass top surrounded by matching chairs, all white. Seated at the table were two men dressed as if they were refugees from a fishing camp. Despite their attire, though, you could tell they were city boys.

“How's the time?” I asked.

“You should be fine,” Bullert said. “County Highway 23 is just down the road. Once you reach it, it should take no more than half an hour to get to the seaplane base. I just got word. The Mexicans landed five minutes ago.”

“Are your people in place?”

“They are. On land and sea. Don't look for them, McKenzie.”

“I know how it works.”

While we spoke, the second man rose from his chair and began to unbutton my shirt. I wasn't offended. Instead, I spread my arms wide to give him ample room. He taped a green body bug about the size of an iPod to the side of my rib cage and ran the foot-long wire antenna up my back.

“It'll pick up sound from twenty feet away,” the tech said.

“What about range?”

“Don't worry, McKenzie,” Bullert said. “We'll hear you fine.”

“If I'm frisked?”

“We'll come to your rescue.”

“In the nick of time? Just like the cavalry?”

“Just like.”

“I hope so.”

Bullert patted my shoulder as I finished rebuttoning my shirt. “When this is over, drinks are on me.”

“You better bring plenty of cash, then, because I'm going to be thirsty.”

I glanced at my watch. 11:24. I took a deep breath and let half out slowly just like I was taught on the police academy firing range. “Ain't nothing to it but to do it,” I said.

It wasn't much of a prayer, yet Bullert said “Amen” just the same.

*   *   *

The old man was waiting for me when I returned to the Jeep Cherokee. “I want to make this right,” he said even before I climbed behind the steering wheel. “There's gotta be a way to make this right.” His voice was filled with both pain and determination. He had missed his chance to behave like a human being and was now seeking redemption. “What can I do?”

“Exactly what I tell you when I tell you,” I said, even though I knew he didn't have a chance; there would be no redemption. When the feds swooped down to grab up Brand and the Mexicans, they were going to take him, too. I didn't like the idea very much, but better him than any of the others.

*   *   *

County Highway 23 was where Bullert said it would be. I followed it northeast until we reached Buyck, pronounced “bike” according to a sign just outside of town. We passed Vermilion River Tavern, which looked like a red barn with a large liquor sign attached, and the Pumpkin Shell Gift Shop, which looked like, well, a gift shop, before catching County Highway 24 heading north. A street sign conveniently labeled it Lake Crane Road. I said the name out loud. I also spoke the names of the Sportman Last Chance Café and Facowie Lodge as we passed them as well. Each time the old man looked at me, a confused expression on his face.

“Are you nervous, Dyson?”

“What makes you say that?”

“You're talking to yourself.”

I thought about it for a few miles and decided, you know what, the old man's wrong, I'm not nervous.

How is that possible?
my inner voice asked.

I guess I've been doing this sort of thing far too long, I told myself.

Scotts Seaplane Base was on County Road 425 just like the map said. I passed it just as Brand had said. I ignored the turn for Rocky Road and kept following 425 until we came to a narrow channel that looked is if someone had carved it out of the woods with a plow and left it at that. I announced my turn.

“What?” the old man asked.

“We're turning down the dirt road that leads to Brand's seaplane base,” I said.

“I know that.”

“Just wanted to see if you're paying attention.”

We drove half a mile before coming to a clearing.

“Two men carrying automatic weapons flanking each side of the road,” I said. “They look Hispanic.”

“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 face 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.