The Last Kind Word (20 page)

“As for me,” I said, “I'm going to Canada.”

*   *   *

That's how I left them.

I actually felt proud as I fired up the Jeep Cherokee, shoved it in gear, and headed down the long access road. This undercover gig—not so tough, I told myself. I had discovered the name the ATF wanted, and I could give it to them without implicating the Iron Range Bandits. Maybe the county sheriff would come for them now and the law—if not justice—would take its course. If it did, though, it wouldn't be because of me. I would not be the agent of their destruction. I might even be able to help them out, give them G. K. Bonalay's name; maybe take care of some of their legal fees. After all, they did open their house to me. Actually, it was a house owned by the dead stockbroker from Chicago; still …

I halted the SUV at the end of the access road where it met the county blacktop, pulled out the cell phone, and called Bullert.

“Brian T. Fenelon,” I told him after he answered. “Roy Cepek bought the AKs from a local punk named Brian T. Fenelon. Roy told me that Fenelon said he got them from some Mexicans. I met Fenelon. He'd rat out his own mother if you make it worth his while.”

“What reason would we have to arrest him?” Bullert asked.

“I'm sorry, Chad. Am I missing something?”

“You say he'd talk if we put pressure on him. Okay, what do we have to pressure him with?”

“Gee, I don't know. What's the going rate for selling illegal weapons these days?”

“Were you there when he sold the weapons? Have you seen him with the weapons?”

“No.”

“I see…”

“I see, what? Give me a name, you said. Don't worry about arresting anyone, just give me a name.”

“And a location,” Bullert said.

“Look up his address in the goddamn phone book.”

“We have no evidence that Fenelon is running guns. You telling me what Roy told you, that's hearsay, inadmissible. If we arrest Fenelon on that alone, c'mon, McKenzie, even a third-year law student would go screaming to a judge claiming we violated the man's rights. Fenelon would be free in thirty-six hours. By then the Mexicans—if there are Mexicans—will be gone.”

“Then turn the case over to Homeland Security. They don't give a shit about judicial rights.”

“McKenzie…”

“A name, you said. Remember? You have no idea what I went through to get that.”

“Enlighten me,” he said.

So I did.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa—whoa,” Bullert chanted. “Wait a minute. You did what?”

“Convinced them to rob an armored truck.”

“Are you insane?”

“The point was to keep the Bandits from robbing any more grocery stores—”

“I appreciate that.”

“And to supply a reason for them to need the guns, for them to set up a meeting with their supplier to get the guns.”

“Everything you've done is illegal.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Conspiracy, trespassing, breaking and entering, burglary, assault, felony assault with a car, for God's sake.”

“Well, if you're going to nitpick…”

“Just—just let me think about this for a second.”

Bullert paused for so many seconds that I thought I had dropped the call. Finally, “Actually, you know what,” he said. “It's just crazy enough to work.”

“Tell me you didn't say that.”

“Your plan…”

“My plan? My plan is finished. Get a name, you said.”

“If the Bandits are convinced you're actually going to rob an armored truck…”

“Chad.”

“This Fenelon will be convinced, too.”

“Chad.”

“You can set up a buy with Fenelon, bring us in, we take him with the guns in his possession, convince him to lead us up the chain…”

“Chad.”

“I like it.”

“Hell no, Chad.”

“You've taken it this far, McKenzie. It's just one more step.”

“This is the part of the program where I admit to you, I like these people. I don't want to see them get hurt.”

“There won't be any charges stemming from the armored truck robbery. We won't even cite them for conspiracy. It is entrapment, after all. You have to know, though, McKenzie—they're going to be hurt whether you continue to help us or not. They're wanted. They're armed robbers. Skarda is an escaped prisoner.”

“I know.”

“Look, the ATF has no interest in the Iron Range Bandits, and the FBI, Harry, he'll tell you the same thing. The county sheriff, the local cops—that's a different matter. We won't intercede, not to help, not to impede. On the other hand, helping us take the guns off the border no matter how indirectly, that might be useful at their trials. You could even testify on their behalf. An ATF operative, that might carry some weight.”

“You would allow me to do that, call myself an ATF operative in open court?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“I can think of lots of reasons.”

“McKenzie, if we can get those guns off the Canadian border without any innocent people getting hurt, you can call yourself any damn thing you want. You can be His Holiness the Fourteenth Dalai Lama from Tibet for all I care.”

“I can take your word on that?”

“Of course you can. I work for the federal government.”

*   *   *

I parked the Jeep Cherokee behind Josie's car and climbed back onto the deck. There were voices raised in heated debate inside the cabin, and I paused outside the door to listen. What I heard filled me with sadness. I had hoped my words earlier would scare them straight, only I was mistaken.

“Truck C,” Skarda said. “It's gotta have the most money because it goes to the biggest cities. We can rob it here.” There was a loud tapping sound. “Rob it here on Highway 135.”

“No, no, no,” said the old man. “Just because it goes to Virginia … Look, Truck A stops at the casino up here in Grand Portage.” There was more tapping. “That's gotta have the most money.”

“Why?”

“It's a casino.”

“You're not listening to me,” Jimmy said. “Why not rob all of them?”

“All three?” Josie said. “That's crazy talk.”

“I've been doing research. It's not all that hard to rob an armored truck.” I heard the flipping of sheets of paper, and I knew he was thumbing through his three-ring binder. “In New York, in the Bronx, two men pepper-sprayed a guard who was delivering a bag of money to a check-cashing center and took off with the money. In St. Louis, a group of robbers overpowered a guard who was leaving a bank with a sack containing nine hundred thousand dollars. In Rochester, some men took a guard hostage who was getting fast food and forced him and his partner to drive to a secluded spot where they transferred the money into a van. Eleven million dollars. Eleven million.”

Better put a stop to this right now,
my inner voice said.

I walked into the cabin. The Bandits all turned to look at me.

“Jimmy,” I said. “In your research, how many robbery attempts failed? How many of the thieves were caught? How many people were shot? How many killed?”

He didn't answer.

“That's not a rhetorical question,” I said. “You said you did the research. How many jobs went to hell in a handbasket?”

“A lot.” He spoke just above a whisper.

“How many?”

This time he answered loudly. “A lot.”

“You're an ambitious kid, I appreciate that. One job at a time, though. Let's keep this thing manageable. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Don't think for a second it's going to be easy, either. It won't be. Our job, if we're going to get away with it, is to make it look easy. Okay?”

“Okay.”

I glanced at Josie. She was smiling at me. They were all smiling. I had no idea why.

“You're back,” Josie said.

“So it would appear.”

“What changed your mind?”

“I got halfway to the county road and realized I didn't have enough money to fill the gas tank.”

“Then you're in the same boat as the rest of us,” the old man said.

“I want fifty thousand dollars off the top,” I said. “That's what I came here for. That's all I came here for. More than enough to hide on until I can get to my own money. You can split the rest however you see fit. Don't be surprised if it's less than you expect. This is the Iron Range, not downtown Manhattan.”

“What if it's more than fifty thousand?” Skarda asked. “The split, I mean. What if our share is more than that?”

“It won't matter as long as I get my fifty.”

“What do you want us to do?” Roy asked.

I moved deeper into the living room and pointed at him. Jill was in the kitchen, my back to her, so I could only guess at her expression when I said, “Go home and make love to your wife.” I pointed at Skarda. “You, too.” He smiled; Elizabeth frowned. I pointed at Claire. “Since you're reporting everything to your boyfriend anyway, tell Fenelon I want to meet.”

“What about?” Claire asked.

“He's not her boyfriend,” Jimmy said.

I ignored them both and pointed at Josie. “You come with me,” I said.

“Any place in particular?”

I went to the map and tapped the blue dot Jimmy had drawn near Lake Vermilion.

“You know what it is, don't you Dyson?” Josie asked.

“I think so.”

“What?”

“The mother lode.”

 

TEN

“In the 1940's the National Geographic Society declared Lake Vermilion one of the top ten most scenic lakes in the United States. And it still is today. With its 40,000 acres of water, 365 islands and 1200 miles of shoreline, it stretches 40 miles across the heart of Minnesota's Arrowhead Region.”
Or so it says on the lake's official Web site. To reach it, Josie and I followed Minnesota Highway 1 west of Ely through the tiny town of Tower, the oldest Minnesota city north of Duluth, population 479, which owes its existence to the long-closed Soudan Iron Mine. Its current claim to fame is that it holds the state record for the coldest temperature on a single day at minus sixty degrees. All that's on the Internet, too. What isn't is the name of the road Jimmy found that jutted north off of Highway 1 just outside of town.

Josie drove while I followed our progress on a state road map. We drove west away from Tower and then east back toward town. It was while driving east that I discovered the road. There was no street sign, fire department address marker, or road reflector. If I hadn't already known it was there, I would not have seen it.

Josie drove north at a slow speed. The road was hard-packed dirt and wide enough for only a single vehicle to pass. It was flanked on both sides by tall trees that kept the road in shadows. One tree in particular was both wide and tall enough to be mistaken for one of those sequoias in California. The road curved around it.

We followed the road until it came to a huge clearing. In the center of the clearing was a large, white, windowless, one-story cinder-block building that reminded me of a warehouse. The bright sun made the walls shine like alabaster. There were no signs identifying it. A gray metal door had been built into the south wall of the building. A half-dozen vehicles were parked on either side of it, their bumpers nearly kissing the wall. In the center of the east wall was a metal garage door big enough for an armored truck to fit through. Well-worn tire tracks veering off the main driveway told me the trucks drove into the warehouse through that door and came out of a door in back that I couldn't see, circling the building until they met the driveway again.

A tall cyclone fence with razor wire strung along the top surrounded the clearing, not unlike at the truck terminal in Krueger. There were no trees or brush for fifty yards around the building inside the fence and nothing but flat ground for twenty yards between the fence and the tree line outside of it. We stopped just short of the gate. It had one of those long arms that you see in parking ramps that was controlled with an electronic keypad. The arm was down. There was a small gatehouse next to the opening; however, it was empty. I counted at least three cameras without turning my head.

“Get out of the car,” I said.

“Why?”

“I want them to get a look at us.”

“Is that a good idea?”

I slid out of the passenger side of the Ford Taurus. I spread the map over the hood of the car and bent to it as if I were lost—certainly that was the impression I wanted to convey. Josie left the car without shutting her door. Instead of looking at the map, she looked at the building, the gatehouse, and the fence. I shouted at her and waved my arms.

“You've seen what there is to see, now pay attention to me.”

She did, a concerned expression on her face. “Why are you shouting?” Josie asked.

“I want the guards to think that I'm commenting on your lousy driving.”

“What guards?”

“Don't look now, but there are at least four cameras pointed at us.” I had spotted one more after I left the Taurus.

“What cameras?” She turned away and started searching for them.

“I said don't look. Dammit, Josie.”

She turned back and waved her arms at me. “Sorry,” she said.

“You're a terrible actress, too.”

“Why are you being so mean?”

I folded up the map and circled the front of the car. “That's enough,” I said. “I'll drive.”

“Why?”

“So the scene has a dramatic and satisfying conclusion.”

“Who are you? Martin Scorsese?”

“Get in the car.”

Josie quickly moved to the passenger door and slid inside. While she buckled her seat belt, I maneuvered the car through a series of Y-turns until we were back on the narrow road and heading for the highway. Josie glanced through the rear window even though there was only empty road and trees behind us.