Unidentified Woman #15 (30 page)

“Cabin nine at the motel near the Blueberry Hill Golf Course. Room A. There is no one else staying there, so we’ll have the place to ourselves.”

“I’ll meet you after closing.” She pointed at my smartphone; Nina still smiling brightly from the screen. “I’m glad your friend is okay.”

Cyndy moved away to serve her customers. I finished my meal and the beer. I thought about ordering a second, yet changed my mind. After all, I had an ambush to prepare.

SIXTEEN

I parked the Jeep Cherokee about twenty feet back from the entrance to room A. The dome light flicked on when I opened the driver’s-side door. I used a switch to turn it off and stepped away from the SUV. It was so quiet. Whatever night sounds might have been audible in summer had been dampened by ice and snow. There were no leaves for the wind to rustle, no crickets chirping in the tall grass, no traffic moving on the county road. The only noise that I could hear was the noise I made myself as I trudged across the deserted lot to the cabin, unlocked the door, and flicked on all the lights. I made sure the blinds were tightly drawn across the windows and turned on the TV. I found ESPN and increased the volume until I could easily hear it in the adjoining room behind closed doors. I retreated to room B, locking both doors behind me. I arranged a chair in front of the windows so that I could easily and comfortably see anything entering the parking lot. I unzipped my coat and stuffed its pockets with my gloves and hat. I removed the nine-millimeter SIG Sauer from its holster and set it on the table next to the chair. From the other room I heard an announcer report that the Minnesota Wild had coughed up a three-to-nothing lead to the Colorado Avalanche, yet managed to win four-to-three in overtime to keep their playoff hopes alive.

I forgot they were playing, I told myself.

And you call yourself a fan,
my inner voice said.

*   *   *

The first car appeared at twelve thirty by my watch. Personally, I would have waited until the bars closed to avoid the possibility of late-night revelers happening upon the scene, but that’s just me.

The driver turned off the vehicle’s headlights as it swung into the parking lot. There was a light mounted on a pole near the manager’s office, so I didn’t have any trouble following the car as it made a beeline toward the only other lights within miles—those shining through the shaded windows of cabin 9, room A.

The vehicle was parked next to the Jeep Cherokee, the engine extinguished. Two men emerged. They had left the car’s dome light on, so I could see their faces when they opened the doors—Cyndy M’s friends tall and small. They were carrying handguns, holding them low. They made their way to the entrance of room A and stood on either side of it, their backs to the wall of the cabin. Tall knocked on the storm door with the flat of his hand

“McKenzie,” he shouted. “Open up.”

I, of course, did not respond.

He pounded some more.

“Open up.”

“Maybe he can’t hear us,” small said.

“Whaddaya mean, he can’t hear us?”

“The TV is awfully loud.”

Tall transferred his gun to his left hand and opened the storm door with his right, propping it open with his knee, and banged on the inside wooden door with this fist.

“McKenzie,” he called.

Both he and small seemed mystified when I didn’t answer.

Small’s voice was so low I could barely hear him when he said, “Try the door handle.”

Really,
my inner voice said.
Now you whisper?

Tall reached for the handle and turned it slowly until the latch gave. He cautiously pushed the door open and called out in a low voice, “McKenzie?”

Oh, for God’s sake.

I lost sight of them when they entered the room. I could still hear their voices, although I couldn’t tell who was speaking.

“McKenzie?”

“Check the bathroom.”

“He’s not there.”

“Where do these doors lead?”

I heard hands rattling the handle of the adjoining door.

“Locked.”

The TV was turned off.

“Maybe he’s hiding under the bed.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

In the silence that followed, I was sure they were both checking under the bed, guns pointed as if they expected me to leap out.

“Where did he go?”

“His car is still here.”

“Maybe Dyson got ’im.”

“Do you think?”

I opened the outside door to room B and prepared myself to confront the boys when I saw another car enter the lot. The driver of this one didn’t turn off its lights. I stepped back inside the room, closing the door gently behind me. I watched out the window as the car drove toward cabin 9. It parked side by side with the other two vehicles. Minnesotans are nothing if not orderly.

“Who’s that?” a voice asked from the adjoining room.

“Turn off the lights.”

“It’s too late. Let ’im think we don’t know he’s coming.”

“Is it McKenzie?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe it’s Dyson.”

“It’s Foley.”

“What?”

“Tim Foley. What the hell is he doing here?”

“Wait until he comes inside.”

I watched as Foley emerged from the car. He made no pretense of stealth. Instead, he slammed the car door shut and walked purposefully toward the cabin. He, too, was carrying a handgun, carrying it low against his thigh like a gunfighter in those B-westerns filmed in the forties and fifties, the ones where the good guy always waits for the bad guy to draw first. Like the others, he knocked on the door—along with neat, Minnesotans are unfailingly polite.

“Come in,” someone said.

Foley opened the door and stepped inside. He disappeared from sight, but I heard their voices.

“Freeze.”

“Don’t move.”

“Don’t shoot.”

“Drop the gun.”

“Put your hands up.”

“Drop the gun first.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Kick it towards me. Harder.”

“Start talking.”

“Where’s McKenzie?”

“As if you didn’t know.”

“He ain’t here?”

“Does it look like he’s here?”

“I was told he’d be here.”

“Who told you?”

“Ms. Bosland.”

“Are you sleeping with Ms. Bosland?”

“What? No.”

“That is so wrong, man.”

It was starting to sound to me like a Three Stooges routine, and as entertaining as I found it, I slipped silently outside the door of room B and made my way to the Jeep Cherokee. I climbed inside, started the engine, and put it into gear. I drove forward slowly, inching ahead until the front bumper of the vehicle was flush against the storm door leading to room A. I turned off the SUV, climbed out, and moved back to room B. The boys were still talking inside; they hadn’t heard a thing. I pulled the motel’s telephone information card out of my pocket and dialed the front office. A prerecorded message told me to input the desired cabin and room number. Instantly, the landline inside room A began ringing.

“Who is that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Answer it.”

“You answer it.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

“What about me?”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, no.”

“What?”

“The door. I can’t open…”

“Is that a car?”

“It’s McKenzie’s Jeep.”

“It’s parked against the door.”

“We’re trapped.”

“Are you saying we can’t get out?”

“Look for yourself.”

“There’s got to be another exit.”

Someone tried the adjoining door again.

“It’s locked.”

“I could have told you that.”

“Shoot the lock.”

“Are you crazy?”

“That only works on TV.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw it on
MythBusters.
”

“We can go though the windows.”

“Somebody might be out there.”

“Somebody is most definitely out there.”

“What do you suggest?”

I shouted as loudly as I could. “Answer the fucking phone.”

Silence followed.

Someone said, “Did you hear that?”

“I think it came from outside.”

The ringing stopped, and I heard a voice through the telephone’s receiver.

“Hello?”

“Finally,” I said. “What a bunch of morons you are.”

“McKenzie, is that you?”

“Listen to me carefully. Are you listening?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to—by the way, which one are you?”

“I’m Michael. I’m—”

“You know what? I don’t care. This is what I want you to do. Call Cyndy M. Tell her to come here. I’ll give her thirty minutes. If you don’t do what I ask, or if she doesn’t show up, I’m going to call the sheriff’s department and you’ll have to explain why you broke into my room carrying dangerous weapons. Most likely, you’ll be charged with assault in the second degree. Your public defender—I’m guessing you don’t have money enough to hire a real attorney—he’ll probably make a deal, allowing you and your friends to plead guilty to third degree assault, which means you’ll be sentenced to five years in prison and out in three and a quarter. However, if you do exactly what I say, and Cyndy does answer my questions, I’ll let you go. Make your call. Do it now. In the meantime, put Foley on the phone.”

A moment later, I repeated my demands, only in Foley’s case I said I wanted to see Ms. Bosland.

Afterward, I bundled up and went outside to wait—partly because I was afraid the boys might try something desperate, but mostly because I just didn’t want to hear them talking, anymore.

*   *   *

Ms. Bosland was the first to arrive. She parked next to Foley’s vehicle, but did not turn off the engine. Instead, she just sat there watching, waiting. I stood in the shadow of cabin 8 watching and waiting as well, my arms folded over my chest in an effort to stay warm. I had slipped the SIG Sauer into my coat pocket where I could get at it in a hurry, yet at the same time, I sincerely hoped I wouldn’t need it. So far the only crime committed by the Deer River crowd that I was aware of was having the wrong friends. God knows I was guilty of the same offense.

The woman had a cell phone clamped to her ear as she twisted in her seat, looking this way and that, probably for me. Finally Ms. Bosland left her car while still speaking on the cell. The boys had kept the drapes closed, no doubt for fear I would shoot them through the window. She moved to the Jeep Cherokee. She looked around it, inside it, even under it. In the quiet of the parking lot I could hear her speaking.

“I don’t see him anywhere. Are you sure he’s here … Well, I don’t see him … Maybe he left … No, you’re right. He wouldn’t leave his ride … I’ll look.”

Ms. Bosland opened the driver’s-side door of the Jeep Cherokee and peered inside.

“No,” she said. “The keys aren’t here.”

I walked out of the shadow of cabin 8 and sidled up to her. She didn’t see me coming.

“Hey,” I said.

Ms. Bosland was startled enough to scream and drop the cell phone in the same instant. She spun around and fell back against my SUV, her arms spread wide, as if she expected to be hit by a meteor. I scooped up her phone and spoke into it.

“She’ll call you back,” I said.

I handed her the phone. Ms. Bosland took it reluctantly.

“The party won’t begin until the other guest arrives,” I said. “Do you want to sit in your car and keep warm while we wait?”

She nodded.

“Beautiful night, isn’t it?” I said. “I mean if it wasn’t so damn cold.”

“Always winter, but never Christmas,”
Ms. Bosland said.

“C. S. Lewis,” I said. “Very good.”

“I started out teaching English.”

“And look at you now.”

We moved to her car. She went to the driver’s side and I went to the passenger side. She opened the door first and started to get in. The dome light flicked on. I opened the passenger door and called her name. She stopped to look hard at the handgun I held up for her to see.

“Please, Ms. Bosland,” I said. “Don’t do anything rash.”

Her response was to climb onto the seat and set both hands on top of the steering wheel. I slipped the gun back into my pocket and sat on the seat next to her.

“Where’s your friend?” I asked.

“Camila? She doesn’t want to be involved anymore.”

“Smart woman.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I could ask you the same question. You’re a high school principal, for God’s sake. Although not for long, if I don’t get some cooperation.”

Probably the threat wasn’t necessary, but I was cold and tired and still miffed that someone took a shot at my girlfriend. You could say I was in a mood. On the other hand, the expression on her face suggested that Ms. Bosland had never actually considered the possibility that she could lose her career, and I really, really wanted her to.

“I’m not the person you think I am,” she said. “I’m not Becky Sharp. I’m not the Marquise de Merteuil or the Wife of Bath. I’m certainly not Fagin.”

“You’re a woman who loves her brother. Who would do anything to protect her brother.”

“You understand.”

“I’ve seen plenty of misplaced loyalty lately.”

“I won’t betray Mitch.”

“Who asked you to?”

I leaned back in the car seat and cocked my head so I could see through the rearview mirror.

“Who are you waiting for?” Ms. Bosland asked.

“Cyndy Desler.”

“I don’t want to speak in front of her.”

“Then talk now.”

“Talk about what?”

Show her the gun again,
my inner voice said.

Instead, I said, “When you spoke to your brother earlier this evening, telling him that I was in Deer River, did he mention that he and his partners had hired a man named Nick Dyson to kill Ella Elbers for twenty thousand dollars?”

Ms. Bosland paused a long time before she said, “He would never do that.”

“Hire a man to kill El, or pay that much to get it done?”

She hesitated again.

“Is that why you’re here?” Ms. Bosland asked.

“I intend to disrupt his plans, if that’s what you mean.”

She nodded her head almost imperceptibly, as if she thought it was a good idea but was afraid to show it.