The Mortal Groove (36 page)

 

When he was done, he looked up. Larry was still working on whatever he was writing. Peter took the chance to read through the note one more time. There was only one word he'd written that might set off Larry's alarm bells, but he'd tried to hide it the best he could.

A few minutes later, Larry finished up. He tore the page he'd been writing on out of the notebook and stood. “Done, Petey?” He removed a couple of envelopes from his backpack, then moved up to the table and grabbed Peter's note.

Peter held his breath.

“Hmm. Yeah, guess this is okay. Thought maybe you'd plead a little.”

Peter stared straight ahead.

“Tell me your dad's address. Or your sister's. Don't matter.” His pen was poised over the envelope, ready to write.

Peter gave him Jane's address.

“Okay.” He stuffed the note inside and licked the back of the envelope. Flipping open one of the coolers, he reached inside and took out a bottle of water. “Drink it fast,” he said, setting it down on the table. Peter didn't need any encouragement. He sucked it back in a matter of seconds. He could have drunk two or three, but Larry had already closed the cooler.

Larry locked Peter up again in the handcuffs, leg irons, and used the bull strap to connect him to a piece of the reinforcing bar holding the trailer together. When he was finished, he stuffed the pistol in the back of his belt and rubbed his chin.

“You really do look like a skinhead,” said Larry, laughing.

Peter dropped his gaze to the floor.

“I'll be gone for a while. But never fear, I'll be back by tonight, Petey. Say your prayers. Boot camp goes thermonuclear tomorrow.”

 

Randy was almost finished with his morning run when his cell phone went off inside his jacket. He stopped along the side of the road and checked the caller ID. No information popped up.

“Randall Turk,” he said, watching a car drive past. One of his neighbors. He waved.

“Hey, bro,” said Larry.

Randy's frustration ratcheted into the stratosphere. “Where are you?”

“At the moment, in Cambridge.”

“What are you doing there? Where's Peter? Is he okay? You haven't hurt him, have you?”

“Not much.”

“What's that mean?” Randy began walking back toward his house. It was only a short distance.

“Let's talk turkey, Turk.” Larry laughed at his joke. “I grabbed Petey to buy me some time, but you and me, we both know I also did it to keep you from spillin' your guts to the cops.”

“If you don't shut up about that weak link crap—” “Tell me it ain't crossed your mind.”

“It hasn't.”

“Liar.”

“Look, let Peter go. You've got my word of honor that I won't talk to the police. I'll even help you get away. Whatever you need.”

“Just what I was hopin' you'd say.”

Randy trotted across his lawn and up the steps to the deck outside the kitchen. Dropping down on a chair, he said, “What do you want?”

“Money.”

“You already took that fifty thousand.”

“Not enough. I need more.”

“How much?”

“Remember when we was hoistin' a few down in Stillwater that one time years ago and you started shootin' your mouth off about how much money you made in the nineties with investments and shit, so much that you got yourself one of them Swiss bank accounts?”

“Yeah, I remember.” Randy rarely bragged. But around Larry, especially when he'd been drinking, he did. He regretted it now.

“Well, I been thinkin' what's the easiest way for you to get me the money. Tomorrow I should have a brand spankin' new passport, driver's license, SS number. I'll be a whole new me!”

“You planning to run?”

“Over the border to Canada, and then off to Europe. Always wanted to visit Paris. But to stay lost, like you and me both want, I'm gonna need me some serious greenbacks. A couple hundred thousand should do it. You got that much?”

Randy would have begged, borrowed, or robbed a bank if it meant getting rid of Larry. “I can handle it.”

“Great, man. Great. Next stop, South America. Hear an Americano can live pretty cheap down there. So, if I go to Switzerland, can you have your banker get me the cash?”

“You don't want to travel with that kind of money on you.”

“No?”

“I'll open a bank account for you, transfer the money in. You'll have to go to my bank in Zurich and sign, give them your
new identification, but once that's done, you can do wire transfers from then on. They'll explain everything.”

“You're my man.”

Randy could hear a catch in his voice.

“Do you know what your new name's going to be?”

“Elmer Hall, from Lava Hot Springs, Idaho. Won't know anything else until tomorrow.”

“You can't call me any more, Larry. It's too dangerous.”

“Yeah, been thinkin' about that, too. So I got me a Yahoo account. You don't even need to write it down to remember it. It's [email protected]. You can leave messages for me there. Let me know where to go, who to talk to. Just remember, don't send it from your computer. Send it from the library or someplace neutral.”

“And before you go, you'll free Peter, right?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely, dog.” He paused. “So, I guess this is the last time I'll talk to you this side of the grave. Just wanted you to know that . . . that I love you, man. I purely do. You and Del have been my only real family. I'll pay you back one day, I promise.”

“Don't worry about that,” said Randy. “You let Peter go and we're even.”

“Brothers to the end,” said Larry.

“Yeah, brothers to the end,” repeated Randy.

“Bye, man. Don't forget me.”

Randy checked his watch. If he called his account manager in Zurich right away, he might still be there.

An hour later, Randy came out of his office. Through the windows in the living room he could see Ethan out by his truck in the drive, getting ready to leave for the day. They hadn't spoken since the night before. Randy couldn't leave it like that.

Katie had left for school just as Randy had headed out for his
morning run, so if he and Ethan got into it, as they sometimes did, Katie wouldn't have to suffer through it.

Walking across the lawn, Randy caught Ethan's eye.

“I don't wanna talk,” said Ethan, turning away.

“We have to.”

Ethan lifted a five-gallon container of gasoline into the back of his truck. “I heard you talking to your banker. You're giving Larry more money?”

“You shouldn't be listening at my door.”

“I got ears! I got eyes!”

“He's my friend. Or, at least, he was once.”

“You got bad friends, Randy.”

“What's eating you? You won't even talk to me anymore.”

“I talk.”

“Not the way we used to. Not the way I want us to.”

Ethan wrapped both hands around the back of his neck, looked down at the concrete. “I can't stand it anymore.”

“Can't stand what?”

“Me!” He walked to the other side of the truck, stood with his arms pressed against the passenger door.

“What's wrong?”

“Everything.”

“You can tell me,” said Randy, leaning next to him on the hood.

“No. I can't.”

“Why?”

“Because I did something bad. Something I never told you. And now, if I tell you the truth, you'll hate me.”

Randy felt fear like the prick of a knife sliding down his back-bone. “What . . . didn't you tell me?”

“What happened.”

“What happened
when,
Ethan?”

“The night Sue died.”

“What about that night?”

“She was going to talk to you, tell you she couldn't marry you.”

“She did talk to me,” said Randy, listening to the rhythmic pounding of his heart, wondering if this was the moment when it would finally stop.

“That's why I got drunk that night. I couldn't stand it. I thought she was going to tell you why. But she didn't.”

“Didn't what?”

“Tell you why she wouldn't marry you.”

“She said she didn't love me.”

“That's part of it.”

“What's the other part?”

“Me. Sue and me, we were in love. It happened while you were in Nam. I didn't mean for it to happen. I'm sorry, Randy.” He broke down, covered his eyes with his arm and began to sob.

Randy stared at him. He couldn't quite get his mind around it, but he knew Ethan wouldn't lie about something like that. Randy was surprised at his reaction. He felt nothing, not the least bit angry. But then, as he stood there watching his brother wrapped in his private hell, sadness expanded inside of him so hard and fast that it almost cut off his breath. Such a waste, he thought. All of it. Such a pointless, useless waste.

“That's why, if I killed her—”

“You didn't, Ethan.”

“But you don't know that,” he cried.

“I do know it. I know who killed her and it wasn't you.”

Ethan looked up, wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. “You know?” he said, looking stunned.

“I always have. I just can't talk about it.”

“It was Larry, wasn't it.” His eyes turned suddenly cold.

“No.”

“Yes it was! You're protecting him, just like you always do.”

“Del, Larry, and me, we all protect each other. That's the way it is. But I'm telling you the truth. You didn't hurt Sue. Deep down, you
must
know that.”

Ethan stood motionless for a few seconds, then walked around to the back of the truck and shut the rear hatch. “I gotta go think about this.”

As he opened the driver's side door to get in, Randy took hold of his arm. “I'm sorry, Ethan. When Sue died, you lost a lot more than I did. I never realized it. If you'd told me about the two of you back then, you're right, I probably would have been furious. But I'm not now. I'd do anything to change what happened, you have to believe that. You and Sue deserved a life together. But . . . there's nothing I can do about it now.”

Starting the engine, Ethan looked up at him. “You could tell the truth,” he said. He yanked the door shut, pulled out of the drive, and drove off.

 

 

J
ane cracked an eye, looked around for a few seconds, then eased her upper body off the desk. She ran both hands through her hair, massaged her neck until the reality of the room re-asserted itself.

She was in her office at the Lyme House. She must have fallen asleep. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was a few minutes after seven. The last time she remembered looking at the time was just before five. She'd been thinking about running upstairs to get herself some coffee. Apparently, she never made it.

Mouse was fast asleep on the braided rug in front of the couch. She'd taken him outside around three for a short walk along the west side of Lake Harriet. When they got back inside she'd stretched out on the couch to try to get some rest, but she'd been too tense. Her eyes just kept popping open. Eventually, she returned to her desk to MapQuest the areas of the state Larry had circled. She was working out what she wanted to tell Nolan.

On weekdays, Nolan usually got up anywhere between seven and eight, but it took three or four cups of strong black coffee and a substantial breakfast before he was, in his words, “fit to carry on a conversation that didn't involve snarling.” Jane figured she could use some coffee herself.

“Mouse?” she said softly.

His tail began to thump against the rug.

“Let's get out of here.”

She cleared everything off her desk into a paper sack, then turned off her desk lamp and locked the door behind her.

After all the rain last night, it was a damp morning. She thought about taking Mouse for a run, but she didn't have the energy. Instead, they got in her car and drove up the hill to her house.

Once inside her kitchen, Jane put on the coffeepot and then ran upstairs to shower while the coffee brewed. Returning to the kitchen dressed in a pair of old jeans, sandals, and a dark green and black rugby jersey, she poured herself a cup of coffee and stepped out onto the back porch with her cell phone. Mouse was out in the yard, sniffing along the fence. Just as she sat down, the phone rang.

“Hello?” she said, not bothering to check the caller ID.

“Janey, it's Dad. I just got a call from Randy. Wilton phoned him a little while ago, said Peter was doing okay and that he'd release him soon.”

How soon?

“He didn't say, but Randy thought it would be a day or two, not much more. I got the impression he might be paying Wilton some sort of ransom.”

Jane assumed that somewhere along the line, money would change hands. “But Randy didn't say that directly?”