The Last Kind Word (21 page)

“What is that place?” she asked.

“It's a remote vault. It's where the bank—the bank Mesabi Security works for—it's where it processes its largest transactions with its most cash-intensive customers in the region. The Mesabi Security trucks roll in early in the morning to get cassettes loaded with money that they'll insert into ATM machines along their routes. Later in the day, they return with deposits—canvas bags filled with currency from the bank's largest depositors—the casinos, check-cashing stores, bank branches, and grocery stores that we talked about before. Inside the building there's a huge processing room with cafeteria-style tables. The cash is dumped out on the tables, and a small army of bank employees count it. Afterward, two of the armored trucks will return to Krueger. The third will take the deposits to the bank's vault in Duluth.”

“You've seen this—what did you call it, a remote vault? Have you seen this before?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Have you ever robbed one?”

“No.”

Josie didn't have anything to say to that. Neither did I, although I was thinking as I hit the intersection of Highway 1, robbing a remote vault, damn, that would be something. The thought lasted only a moment before my inner voice started screaming,
Are you out of your frickin' mind?
Still, the thought was there.

*   *   *

We drove east through Tower and back toward Ely. Traffic was light. WELY-FM, which promoted itself as “end of the road radio,” was playing an eclectic song list that included Bob Dylan, Elvis Costello, Mos Def, Bob Marley, Tom Waits, Janis Joplin, the White Stripes, Kool and the Gang, and Alberta Cross, plus a poem read by Noël Coward. It reminded me of “The Current,” a public radio station back home. I wasn't listening that closely, though. Mostly I was wondering how I was going to get back home.

The problem—or the solution, depending on how you looked at it—was Claire de Lune. I would use her to get close to Fenelon, eliminating the need to involve Roy or any of the other Iron Range Bandits. I'd place my order and then make sure the ATF was on hand when Fenelon delivered the weapons. 'Course, since Claire was so close to the operation, it meant I would need to continue my preparations to rob the remote vault right up until Bullert and the badge boys bagged Brian.

Bullert and the badge boys bagged Brian,
my inner voice repeated.
Nice alliteration.

Thank you, I told myself.

I couldn't really blame Jimmy for telling Claire everything. Well, yes I could. As Harry would testify, I was in the habit of spilling my guts to Nina. On the other hand, there was plenty that I kept to myself. For example, I knew I would never tell Nina about the woman who was sitting next to me in the Ford Taurus. Our relationship was complicated enough.

It was because I was thinking about Nina while half listening to a remix of “Sympathy for the Devil” by Fatboy Slim that I didn't see the county sheriff's department cruiser until its lightbar started flashing in my rearview mirror.

“What?” Josie saw me gazing into the mirror and turned her head to look out the rear window. “Oh, shit.”

I leaned forward in the seat, reached behind me, and slipped the 9 mm SIG Sauer out from beneath my shirt. “Take this,” I said. “Put it in the glove compartment.”

Josie took the gun reluctantly, holding it by her fingertips as if it were something she wanted to flush down the toilet.

“Where did you get the gun?” she asked.

“If I told you, you wouldn't like the bartender at Buckman's anymore. Put it away.”

Josie slipped the handgun into the glove compartment. As soon as she did, I pulled over onto the shoulder of the highway. By then the deputy had hit his siren. I stopped the Ford and engaged the emergency flashers.

“Whatever happens, do nothing,” I told Josie. “Say nothing. Don't even think of touching the gun.”

Josie nodded in reply.

I sat in the car and waited. There were two deputies in the cruiser. One tall and fat, the other shorter and thin. I recognized them instantly. The tall deputy approached from the driver's side of the car, the short deputy approached from the passenger side. Both of them had hands resting on the butts of their holstered guns.

“This just keeps getting better and better,” I said.

I made a production out of placing both of my hands on top of the steering wheel. Deputy James seemed to like that. He smiled when he said, “Roll down your window,” and smiled some more when I returned my hand to the steering wheel afterward and said, “Is there a problem, Deputy?”

“He wants to know if there's a problem,” James said.

Deputy Williams was leaning against the passenger door of the Taurus. Josie's window was rolled down, and he was looking across her at me.

“I don't have a problem,” he said. “Do you have a problem?”

“I don't have a problem unless Dyson gives me one.”

“Hmm, Dyson?” I said. “Who's he?”

“Oh, dang,” James said. “Now we have a problem.”

“Here I was hoping for a problem-free day.”

“Just goes to show.” James took a step backward and rested his hand back on the butt of his gun. “Outta the car, Dyson.”

I reached down for the door latch. When I opened the door, Josie turned to do the same. Williams put an arm through the window, covered her breast with his hand, and pushed her back against the seat.

“Don't move, honey,” he said. He gave her breast a squeeze. “Mmm, nice.”

Josie squirmed under his touch and tried to push his hand away. Williams grinned at her.

“Atta girl,” he said. “Now, stay put.”

He removed his hand, stepped back from the window, and made his way to the rear bumper. I was already standing there, facing James.

“This will go much easier if you just admit that you're Nicholas Dyson, escaped criminal,” he said.

“Who?” I asked.

Williams drove his fist deep into my stomach. I lost my breath, doubled up, and went to my knees. It took me a few moments to regain my composure. While I did, I noticed the shiny bands of chrome-plated steel wrapped around the fingers of his right hand.
No wonder he hit so hard,
my inner voice said. I used the bumper and trunk lid to pull myself upright again.

“Brass knuckles,” I said. “I thought that went out with Polaroid cameras.”

“We're traditionalists,” Williams said. “Something works for us, we stick with it.”

“Let's talk, Dyson,” James said.

“My name isn't Dyson.”

Williams hit me again and again I went down. Loose gravel dug into my knees. To alleviate the pain, I fell backward into a sitting position, propping myself up with one hand while clutching my tender stomach with the other.

“We can do this all day,” James said.

“We?” asked Williams.

“I'll take a turn. Do you want me to take a turn?”

“That's up to Dyson here.” Williams nudged me with his toe. “Whaddaya say, Dyson?”

“You can call me anything you want,” I said.

“We can call him anything we want,” Williams said.

“How 'bout dipshit?” James asked.

“That, too,” I said.

James squatted next to me. “You're a smart guy, aren't you, dipshit?” he said.

“'Course he's smart,” Williams said. “He's from the big city. Way smarter than us good ol' country boys.” He nudged me with his toe again. “Ain't that right?”

I continued to clutch my stomach. “I don't feel smarter,” I said.

“He doesn't feel smarter,” Williams said.

“Don't know why,” James said. “Big-time criminal mastermind like him.” He circled a beefy hand under my arm and pulled me upright. “You are a big-time criminal mastermind, aren't ya?”

“No, actually, I'm not,” I said.

“He's not a criminal mastermind,” Williams said.

“We've been misled,” James said.

“Wouldn't be the first time.”

“So, here's what we're thinking,” James said. His fingers dug into my shoulder and pain shot down through my arm, numbing my fingertips. “We slap the cuffs on you, drag you down to Duluth, we're heroes. Might even get a commendation out of it.”

“But then we'd have to make statements,” Williams said. “Explain how we caught you. Probably testify in court…”

“All that paperwork.”

“We hate paperwork.”

“Actually, most everything is done on computers now, but you get the gist of it.”

“Typing,” Williams said. “Ewww.”

“We hate typing.” James held up both index fingers for me to see. “Never did get the hang of it.”

“It is skilled labor,” I said.

Williams rapped the side of my head with the brass knuckles. The blow wasn't hard enough to break the skin, yet it made me regret the remark just the same.

“The point is, we end up wasting all those man-hours in the office when we could be out here chasing real criminals,” James said.

“Like the father of the honey you got in the car,” Williams said. “Have you done her yet, Dyson?”

I ignored the question. “Is there an alternative?” I said.

“Funny you should ask,” James said. “Don't you think it's funny?”

“Hysterical,” Williams said.

James gave my shoulder another squeeze, and I fought back a groan. “What we're thinking, Dyson, is instead of paying your debt to society to, well, society, you should pay it to us,” he said.

“That way you're punished for your grievous crimes…” Williams began.

“Grievous,” said James.

“Society is spared the bother and expense of supporting yet another freeloader through the prison system.”

“And we avoid all that typing.”

“We don't like typing.”

“I gathered that,” I said. “How exactly would this work? I mean, what would be the amount of my fine?”

“We're not greedy,” James said.

“Oh, no,” said Williams. “We want a lot less than the courts would take.”

“How much?” I asked.

“Half.”

“Half of what?”

Williams punched me yet again. I doubled over and fell like a small tree toppled by straight-line winds, landing first on my knees and then sprawling forward on my shoulder. I gripped my solar plexus. This time I thought he might have done some real damage.

James squatted next to me. “We know all about your plans to rob an armored truck,” he said. “One belonging to Mesabi Security.”

“Geez,” I moaned. Not because of what Deputy James said, but because of the pain. Williams saw it as a form of capitulation, though.

“See, us country boys, we know a thing or two,” he said.

“I won't ask how you know,” I said.

“He won't ask how we know,” Williams said.

“Told you he was a criminal mastermind,” James said.

“When are you going to make your move?” Williams asked.

“Haven't decided,” I told him.

Williams brought his foot back and up like he was preparing to stomp me.

“No kidding. We're still working out the details.”

Williams set his foot back on the pavement.

“Don't wait too long,” James said.

“We're not patient types,” Williams said.

“How would I get ahold of you once I decide?”

“Oh, we'll be around—partner,” James said.

“I don't suppose you'd recommend which armored truck to take,” I said.

“Us?” Williams said.

“Us?” James repeated. “You're not asking us for help, are you, Dyson?”

“Oh, no, we can't help you,” Williams added. “That would be illegal.”

“I thought we were partners now,” I said.

“Think of us as silent partners,” James said.

A few moments later, the deputies were back in their cruiser and heading down Highway 1. I sat behind the Ford Taurus and nursed my stomach. Several vehicles passed while I did. The drivers and passengers all stared at me intently, yet did not stop. Josie knelt at my side.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“I've been better.”

“Can you stand?”

“Yes,” I said and then I proved it, although without her assistance I would have toppled over into the roadside ditch.

“You drive,” I said.

Josie helped me to the passenger seat, circled the car, and slid in behind the steering wheel. She started the Taurus, yet did not put it into gear. Her eyes were moist and her voice was hoarse as if she were fighting back a good cry.

“Bastard put his hands on me,” she said. “He, he—he put his hands on me.”

“Don't worry about it,” I said.

“That's easy for you to say. All he did was hit you. What he did to me—I hate him so much. I want to get him, Dyson.”

While she spoke I opened the glove compartment and removed the SIG Sauer.

“That's the part I don't want you to worry about,” I said.

*   *   *

The only vehicle parked near the cabin on Lake Carl when we returned was my Jeep Cherokee. I thought the place was deserted until Josie helped me through the cabin door.

“What happened to you?” the old man asked. He was sitting at the kitchen table and nursing a beer. He stood while I shuffled to the sofa across from Jimmy's map and sat down, still clutching my stomach.

“Occupational hazard,” I said. “Where's Roy?”

“Lying in a coffin filled with his native earth. Or is that too much to hope for?”

“Dissension in the ranks? We haven't even started yet.”

“What happened?” Josie asked.

“Jimmy,” the old man said. “After you left, he wanted to know why you told Claire to set up a meeting with Fenelon, why you would even want to talk to Fenelon. Claire said she didn't know. Jimmy accused her of lying. He also accused Claire of still seeing Fenelon even though she had promised she wouldn't. Claire said she had to keep seeing Fenelon because Fenelon was her business manager. It went back and forth like that for a while until Jimmy said if Dyson—you—wanted to see Fenelon so bad, you should have Roy set it up. That's when Jill said that Roy didn't even know who Fenelon was. Jimmy told her Roy and Fenelon sure seemed like pals the way they would huddle together whenever they, meaning Jimmy, Roy, and Dave, would go to the strip club to watch Claire dance. Before he could even finish, though, Jill was all over Roy. How could he, she wanted to know, how could he go to a stripper joint, which was bad enough, but then sit there and watch Claire dancing naked, which was worse, and Claire going, ‘What's wrong with what I do?' Meanwhile Liz, Dave's wife, she starts shouting at Dave about spending time with whores when they were having problems holding their marriage together and Dave claiming that he never actually looked, which causes Jimmy to ask who the hell was Liz calling a whore and why wouldn't Dave look. That's when Jill said she—meaning Liz—was calling Claire a whore. Jimmy then called Jill a whore for sleeping with Roy while she was still in high school, a man old enough to be her father, who did she think she was kidding. Jill slapped Jimmy. Jimmy made like he was going to hit her back, only Roy hit him first, just wham, puts him on the floor. Then Jill screams at Roy for hurting her brother…”