The Last Kind Word (19 page)

“Sure.”

I set the remnants of the pie on the table and followed her into the master bedroom. I could see Roy watching us out of the corner of my eye, and my internal alarm systems climbed to Defcon Three. We stepped into the room, and Jillian closed the door. She leaned against it, her hands behind her back. I sat down on the bed, thought better of it, and stood again, circling the bed until it was between us.

“I want to thank you,” she said. Listening to her voice—it was the most I'd heard her speak since I arrived, and I noticed for the first time that it had a sweet, rhythmic quality that reminded me of woodwinds.

“For what?” I asked.

“For beating some sense into Roy.”

“Excuse me?”

“He told me what you did. He told me what you said. He told me that he loved me more than his own life and that he was so very sorry it took you punching him in the mouth for him to realize it. He said he was glad that you punched him and said the things you said, too, because it reminded him that I was the only person in the whole world that he cared about and that we were a team and that he would never hurt me again, not ever. He said it was me and him against the world and while he might get angry at the world, he would never again get angry at me.”

“I'm happy to hear that,” I said.

“Anyway, I just wanted to thank you because, well, you kinda saved my marriage.”

No, no, no,
my inner voice chanted.
Don't tell me that.

“It doesn't work this way, you know,” I said aloud. “Roy might be contrite now, but he'll fall back into his old habits. They always do.”

“You're wrong, Dyson.”

“I don't think so.”

“You don't know anything about love, do you, Dyson? Love is unconditional.”

No, it isn't,
my inner voice insisted.

Jill replied as if she had read my mind. “My love is unconditional,” she said. “I'm going to tell you a secret. I've never told anyone else because I was afraid they would laugh at me. You won't laugh, though, will you, Dyson?”

“Not even if I thought it was funny.”

“When I was a little girl—and I mean little, three, four, something like that. When I was a little girl my parents took me to the Science Museum in St. Paul, and they were showing this film, this film about insects on the giant Omnitheater movie screen. They showed this extreme close-up of a butterfly, the butterfly's face, and I thought it was the most horrible thing I had ever seen in the world. It terrified me, made me cry. My parents had to take me out of the theater. I've been afraid of butterflies ever since. What it taught me, this experience, it taught me to take things for what they seem and not look too closely, especially at the things that I find beautiful.”

“I don't agree that's a good idea.”

“That's because you're cynical.” She waved at the people behind the closed door. “All of you are.”

“I suppose…”

“Should I tell you how we met? Roy and I? It was during the Ely Winter Festival just before I graduated from high school. First at the Spaghetti Feed and then later at the Polar Bear Dance. Roy had been discharged from the army, only he was still wearing his dress uniform with his medals on his chest, and when I saw him—saw him from across a crowded room, isn't that how the song goes?—I knew he was the one. He didn't come after me; I went after him. He doesn't remember it that way, though, because guys are all like, ‘Hey baby, want to see the bruise where the puck hit me?' and women are way more subtle than that.

“We didn't spend time together around here because people—so many people knew us—you can't date in a small town without everyone knowing your business. Instead, we went to Virginia or Hibbing or Tower or even Duluth. Then, after I graduated, well, then we made it official. I know what you're thinking, Dyson. You're thinking he's too old for me. Everyone thought that at first. Roy did, too. Only then he told me after we were seeing each other for a while, he said how being with me, it made him feel young. He said that I reminded him that he was over forty years old but he had never been twenty because of the army, you see. Maybe I should have looked closer. I've told myself that the last couple of weeks. I didn't, though, and I'm not going to start now. Anyway, I just wanted to thank you.”

“Jill, get out of here,” I said. “Bad things are going to happen. I don't want you involved in them. I don't want you hurt.”

I don't know where the words came from or why I said them out loud. I only know I meant them with every fiber of my being. Unfortunately, nothing I said registered. Instead, a smile started in her eyes and spread across her face—you have never seen a smile like that—and she whacked me on the shoulder.

“Oh, you,” Jill said. “You're nothing but a big softy. Just like Roy.”

A moment later, she was out the door and heading back to the kitchen. I joined her a moment later, retrieved my plate of strawberry-rhubarb pie, and stepped into the living room. I stood in front of Jimmy's map next to Roy while I ate. Roy leaned in and whispered.

“Did Jill thank you for slugging me?”

“As a matter of fact, she did.”

“She said she was going to. What else did she say?”

“She said you were a big softy.”

“Women. Listen, I need to tell you something. In private.”

You, too?
my inner voice asked.

“Sure,” I said aloud.

We retreated to the same bedroom and closed the door. This time I brought my pie with me.

“What?” I asked.

“Brian Fenelon.”

“What about him?”

Roy glanced around the room as if he were afraid someone was watching. “He's the man I bought the guns from. He's the one who sold me the AKs. I didn't tell you before, tell anyone before, because—because I didn't want Jill to know.”

“Know what?”

This time Roy lowered his voice as if he were afraid someone was listening at the door. “I didn't want her to know—I met Fenelon in a strip joint; the strip joint where Claire was working, Jimmy's girl. I didn't want Jill to know I went to those places, that I watched Claire. She can be—she can be so young.”

Seriously?
my inner voice asked.
You abuse your wife but you don't want her to know that you ogle strippers?

“Your secret is safe with me,” I said, “although it would have been nice if you told me before I hit Fenelon over the head with a beer bottle.”

“You did what?”

“Never mind. Spilled milk. Did Fenelon tell you where he got the guns?”

“He mentioned something about Mexicans. He was being very cagey about it, though. Fenelon likes people to think he's connected, you know; like he's some kind of crime czar.”

“Yeah, there's a lot of that going around. Thanks, Roy.”

Roy nodded his head, and we both returned to the living room. The burgers had been grilled, and Josie and Liz were handing them out.

“Do you want cheese on yours?” Josie asked.

I waved my fork at her. “In a minute,” I said.

So that's that,
I told myself while I finished my pie.
You have what you came for. It's time to go home.

A few minutes later the old man pointed his half-eaten cheeseburger at the map. “Do you have it all figured out yet?” he asked.

I shrugged.

“Let me show you what I have,” Jimmy said.

He knelt on the cushions below the plywood and explained it to me. According to the GPS trackers, trucks A and B both left the terminal in Krueger at about the same time, 10:00
A.M.
They went to a spot marked in blue near Lake Vermilion, where they stayed for about thirty minutes each. Truck A went east and north across the Arrowhead region, stopping a half-dozen times along the way—never lingering for more than fifteen minutes—until it arrived in Grand Portage in the corner of the state where Minnesota, Canada, and Lake Superior met. It made frequent stops after that in Grand Marais, Lutsen, Tofte, and Silver Bay as it followed the lake south; each stop was also marked in blue, most of them corresponding to Jimmy's red circles. It turned northwest again, making several stops in Ely before returning to Lake Vermilion. It rested there for half an hour before driving south to the Krueger terminal, arriving at 7:21
P.M.

Meanwhile, Truck B went northwest from Lake Vermilion, driving nonstop to Baudette, a city near the center of Minnesota located on the U.S. side of the Rainy River. It then worked its way to International Falls, Littlefork, Big Falls, Effie, Cook, and Tower before returning to Lake Vermilion and finally Krueger at 7:27
P.M.

Truck C, on the other hand, did not leave the terminal until 1:00
P.M.
It also went first to Lake Vermilion before backtracking south, stopping in Aurora, Biwabik, McKinley, Mountain Iron, and Virginia—there were plenty of stops in Virginia. It returned to Lake Vermilion, waited nearly forty-five minutes, and drove all the way to Duluth. It did not return to the Krueger terminal until almost three hours after the other trucks.

While Jimmy was able to identify every stop—there were bank branches, department stores, grocery stores, you name it—he could not identify the location near Lake Vermilion.

“That's the Fortune Bay Casino,” Roy said.

“No,” Jimmy said. He tapped a spot on the map several miles away. “The casino is over here on the west side of Pike Bay, and none of the Mesabi Security trucks drive there. We're over here on the east side of the bay.”

“Then what is it?” Skarda asked.

“I don't know. It doesn't have an address. There's a road leading to it here off Highway 1, but this is where the maps, the satellite pictures, stop. I can't get up the road.”

I stood in front of the map, staring at the blue dot Jimmy had drawn there. I actually felt a thrill of excitement ripple through my body as I thought of it.

“What do you think?” Roy asked.

I handed him my empty plate and fork. “I have to get dressed. You kids play quietly while I'm away.”

The old man made a production out of popping open a beer can using only his middle finger.

“I saw that,” I said.

*   *   *

I retreated into the bathroom, where I took my time making myself presentable, all the while thinking, now's the time—jump in the Jeep Cherokee and get the hell out before you cause any more damage. I tapped the left pocket of my jeans where the cell phone was and the right pocket where I carried the car key.

While I was dressing, I heard a commotion from the cabin, voices raised in greeting, yet did not understand what was said. When I emerged from the bathroom, I found Claire de Lune eating a cheeseburger in the kitchen while chatting with Jill and Josie. Liz was sitting on the sofa with Skarda in the living room—they were holding hands and talking quietly. Roy and the old man were behaving like long-lost army buddies, and Jimmy was sitting on the second sofa and tossing an infant in the air and catching him in the way that I found alarming, although both he and the child seemed to be having a wonderful time. It was just one big happy family sharing a pleasant Sunday afternoon together. Watching them, listening to them, it occurred to me how absurd it all was—ridiculous, simple-minded, self-aggrandizing, and brain-dead stupid. We lost our jobs, so let's rob an armored car. If that doesn't work, we can rob a bank. Then what, I wondered. Live happily ever after?

Time to say good-bye,
my inner voice said.

“What's wrong with this picture?” I said aloud. I liked the sound of the words so much that I repeated them, this time tossing in a few expletives. That silenced the room.

“Are you people crazy?” I shouted for good measure.

“What is it?” Skarda asked.

“What is it? You brought your ex-wife to the hideout where you're planning to commit a federal crime.”

“She's not my ex-wife—”

“You”—I was talking to Jimmy now—“you bring a child, you bring a woman who's connected to the local punk?”

“Claire is my fiancée,” Jimmy protested. “This is my son.”

“He's not your son,” Josie said.

“I don't care,” I said. “Geezus, people—no wonder Fenelon knows what we're doing. Even the frickin' bartender at Buckman's knows what we're doing. God knows who they told. And you, you're no better.” I stepped close to Josie and glared into her eyes. “Giving out chunks of cash in a public place the day after you pull a job like you're frickin' Robin Hood? You must all be suicidal. Everyone in the county has to know you're the Iron Range Bandits. The fact the sheriff hasn't already scooped you up is astonishing to me. Now this. We're going to rob an armored truck. What better reason to throw a party?”

“Now, now, Dyson,” the old man said. “Let's not get carried away.”

“Hey, pal, you're the one who's going to get carried away—straight into federal prison for twenty goddamn years. Tell me something. If by some miracle you pull this off, what are you going to do with the money? Do you think you can walk into a bank and pay off your mortgage with cash—pay your power, your cable, your utility bills with cash—and not make people suspicious?”

“Brian can help you launder the money,” Claire said. She was perfectly sincere.

I threw up my hands.

“I can't work like this,” I said. “Listen. You're all good people at heart. You have no business doing this shit. Robbing grocery stores, robbing armored trucks—you're not wired for it. You have a chance, though; a chance to get out clean if you just quit. Quit now before the cops get wise to you. Get rid of the guns.” I waved at the map. “Get rid of all of this. Stop thieving. Stop pretending that armed robbery is going to solve all of your problems.” I was staring at Skarda when I said that last line. “If you do that, you can go on enjoying Sundays like you're enjoying this one. If you don't, every damn one of you will be spending your best years in prison. Some of you might even die there.” I was speaking to the old man when I said that. The expression on his face suggested that he had thought about it before.