The Last Kind Word (23 page)

“What do you see?” Roy asked.

“A lot of places to hide.”

He didn't know what I was talking about, and I didn't elaborate, mostly because I wasn't sure I knew what I was talking about, either. We made our way back to the remote vault, eventually returning to the perch where we had hidden earlier. The sun was warm; however, the shadows of the trees kept my jeans and shoes from drying. I was as uncomfortable as hell yet said nothing for fear Roy would make fun of me. My biggest concern was for the cell phone.

Most of the employees were back in place by 6:00
P.M.
At 6:25, the first armored truck returned from its rounds, joined by the second truck ten minutes later. They both departed, one after another, at about 7:00
P.M.
We waited until the third truck arrived at 7:20
P.M.
It lingered almost forty-five minutes before leaving. I put all that in my notebook, too. A few minutes later, the place was deserted. The sun set at 9:03 by my watch. We waited until 9:30 before leaving. It was while I was lying on the ground in the forest waiting for night to fall that my inner voice began talking to me, as it often did.

You're out of your mind,
it told me.
Do you seriously think you could pull this off?

Of course not, I told myself. Robbing a bank—that would be wrong. On the other hand …

What?

Nothing. Forget it.

Spit it out.

I know how it could be done.

You're certifiable.

A short time later, Roy led me through the woods until we reached his car, parked discreetly off Glenmare Drive. It wasn't until we were safely in the car and making our way toward Tower that he asked, “How the hell are we going to get in there?”

“Getting in isn't the problem,” I told him. “It's getting out that worries me.”

*   *   *

We passed through Tower and quickly approached Ely. The Chocolate Moose wasn't far from the intersection where we turned south toward Krueger, and I told Roy to stop.

“What for?”

“So I can use the restroom and you can buy your wife a strawberry-rhubarb pie.”

He thought that was a helluva good idea. “Jill's still a little miffed at me,” he said.

“Can't say I blame her.”

We parked on Sheridan Street. The Chocolate Moose was inside a building made to look like a lakeside cabin and was surrounded on two sides by a wide porch. We climbed the wooden stairs and went inside. Roy stepped up to the counter to place his order. I was directed to the restroom the restaurant shared with Piragis Northwoods Company, a camping outfitter. I locked myself inside the restroom and removed the top of the toilet tank. A sealed plastic bag was taped to the bottom of the cover. It contained $2,500 in cash. Next, I checked the cell phone and sighed audibly in relief when I discovered that it still worked. I took the cell and the bag and stashed both in my pocket. After finishing my business—my pants were still damp and my legs were chilled—I returned to the Chocolate Moose. Roy was waiting for me. The pie was in a box that he held with both hands.

“Now where?” he asked.

“Let's stop at Buckman's Roadhouse for a quick beer before heading back to the cabin.”

Roy liked that idea, too.

*   *   *

It was 10:40
P.M.
when we arrived, and Buckman's was surprisingly busy—at least I was surprised, given what the bartender told me about his business earlier. We sat at the bar and ordered Sam Adams because the bartender still hadn't laid in a supply of Summit Ale. Halfway through the beer, Roy excused himself as I had hoped he would, and I waved the bartender over. He asked me what I wanted, and I answered by slipping him the plastic bag filled with cash as unobtrusively as I could. His eyes bulged a little in his head.

“What's this?” he asked.

“Half of what I promised. You'll get the rest later.”

He pushed the money down deep into his pocket and produced a couple of fresh beers. “On the house,” he said.

“Anything going on I should know about?”

“I haven't heard anything,” the bartender said. “Fenelon was in earlier. He waited until Brand arrived, and then they left together. Brand might have had someone else with him, only I can't be sure. That was a couple hours ago.”

“Okay,” I said.

By then Roy had returned from the restroom. We finished the fresh beers and headed out.

“It's getting late,” I said. “Jill will probably be upset.”

“It's okay as long as I'm with you and not with … Well, you know.”

“Claire. What does Jimmy see in her, anyway?”

“Tits, ass, and legs, not necessarily in that order, what do you think? Weren't you ever twenty-two years old, Dyson?”

“Yeah, I was—just never that dumb.” I stopped on the passenger side of the car and waited for Roy to unlock the driver's-side door. While he did, I surfed my memory of that heady year after I graduated from college and all the women I was fortunate—and unfortunate—enough to hook up with. “Actually, I guess I was that dumb.”

“Me, too,” Roy said. “Not now, though.”

“Oh no,” I agreed. “We're way smart, now.”

*   *   *

Roy took me back to Lake Carl. He had intended to drop me off and drive away, but all the lights were on inside the cabin and the yard was littered with cars, so he decided to stop to see what was going on. He went through the cabin door first and was hit by a big man who used the butt of a handgun to put Roy on his knees. A woman screamed. It was Jill, and she crossed the living room to Roy's side. Roy covered the back of his head with his hand. I could see blood seeping between his fingers. The man quickly turned his full attention on me, pivoting so that the gun was pointed at my throat. He was shorter by a half-dozen inches yet didn't seem to have a complex about it. My eyes traveled from the muzzle of the gun to his face. I did not recognize him. He was smiling, so I smiled back, although I sure as hell wasn't getting any pleasure out of the experience.

“Be careful with that,” I said. “You might hurt someone.”

He snorted his contempt at my bravado. At the same time, Roy pushed Jill away and managed to regain his feet. He spun toward the gunman, fully intent on charging him, gun or no gun. I stepped between them and wrapped Roy in my arms.

“No, no, no, no, no,” I chanted. “That's just his way of saying hello.”

I pushed Roy backward three steps, not an easy feat, believe me. He glared at the big man while I surveyed our surroundings. Everyone was huddled in the living room—Josie, the old man, Dave, Liz, Jimmy, and Claire; Jill was on her knees. They were all frightened. Only Jill was looking at us. The rest were staring at something past us in the kitchen. I followed their eyes. Fenelon was standing near the refrigerator, his hands behind his back, and leaning against the counter. A second man was sitting at the rickety table. He had the vaguely bored expression of someone that had ordered a beer in a bar and was waiting for the waitress to deliver it.

“What's this?” I asked. “A party? You should have told me. I would have worn a nicer sweatshirt.”

“Thank God you're here,” said Josie.

“Bastard's kept us prisoner for hours,” Jimmy said.

“Tell your friends to shut up,” the man said. He spoke loudly, like he was giving a lecture on self-improvement to a full auditorium.

“You tell 'em,” I said. “You're the one with the guns.”

“Sit down, Dyson.”

“Everyone seems to know my name, and yet I've tried so hard to remain incognito.”

He spread his hands wide as if he were as baffled by the phenomenon as I was. His hair was short, brown, and curly, except for a bald patch the size of a tennis ball at the back. He was wearing a charcoal suit jacket over a wine-colored shirt that was open at the collar and slacks that matched the jacket—easily the best-dressed man I'd seen since I arrived in the northland. There was a small-caliber wheel gun shoved under his belt just above his left hip, ideally positioned for a right-handed man to cross-draw while sitting down.

“Kinda late, though, isn't it, John?” I asked. “After all, tomorrow's a school day.”

“You know who I am?” He continued to speak loudly, even though I was less than ten feet away. At the same time, his voice was as smooth as a combination lock.

“Of course I know who you are. I've been expecting you.”

I was still holding on to Roy and whispered in his ear. “Sit next to Jill. When I call your name, stand up—slowly.” He nodded imperceptibly. I released him, and he bent to Jill. He helped her up by the shoulders and eased her onto the corner of the sofa farthest from the door. He sat next to her, and although he took hold of Jill's hand, his eyes never left the big man standing at the door.

I moved into the kitchen. Brand shifted in his seat.

“So, John, how's it going?” I said. “You don't mind that I call you John, do you?”

“I prefer Mr. Brand.”

“When I was a kid, I wanted everyone to call me Deadeye, Deadeye Dyson, but no one ever did.” I pulled a chair out and slowly sat while keeping both hands on the edge of the table. The big man leaned against the closed cabin door, his hands crossed in front of him, the gun pointed at the floor, and watched. Fenelon watched, too.

“You said you were expecting me,” Brand said.

“I figured you'd turn up eventually, just not in the middle of the night like a sneak thief.” The insult registered on his face, yet Brand said nothing in reply. “Has everybody been properly frightened?” I gestured toward the living room. “Have you and your pet thug made all the threats you care to make?”

“You're cutting it pretty thin, Dyson.”

“John.” I spread my hands wide, then set them back on the edge of the lightweight kitchen table again. “You came here to negotiate. You brought Fenelon and your muscle in the middle of the night so you could negotiate from a position of power. That's cool. I understand that. Let's talk. Here's what I want you to do…”

“What you want me to do?”

“Well, you're big man on campus, aren't you? The man who runs everything.” I gestured with my chin at Fenelon. “No matter what Brian has to say.”

Fenelon stiffened at my words yet said nothing.

“What did Brian have to say?” Brand asked.

“He said he and I could run this town. I'm sure he was exaggerating.”

Brand smiled at me. “You're deliberately attempting to induce a quarrel between me and my associates, aren't you, Dyson?”

“Why would I do that? After all, I don't think I've made it a secret that I'm just passing thorough on my way to Canada.”

“Yet you intend to stay long enough to conduct a little business before you leave.” Brand tapped his chest. “In my town. You don't do business in my town without I get a taste.”

“Yeah, I know. You're nothing new to me, John. You're no different than the guys in the Cities or San Francisco or Chicago or any other place I've worked except that you're small market. You were here first so you think you deserve a little extra consideration. Fine. When in Rome, right? Now, John, what I want you to do…”

“Mr. Brand,” he said. His voice confirmed his growing frustration.

Good,
my inner voice said.
Angry people make mistakes.

I sighed dramatically. “Mr. Brand,” I said. “Are you happy now?”

I heard Fenelon whisper “Jesus” under his breath.

Brand pointed a finger at me. “You're a funny guy, Dyson. A real comedian. Funny's gonna cost ya.”

“Cost me what?”

“Half. I want half.”

“Half of what?”

“Half of everything.”

“That kind of steep, isn't it, John—excuse me, Mr. Brand?”

“Do you know what kind of heat robbing an armored car will bring”—he tapped his chest again—“to my town?”

“More than you think.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I'm not going to rob a single armored car. I'm going to rob them all.”

“All?” Josie asked from the living room.

“No,” Jill said.

“Yes,” Jimmy said.

“What is he talking about?” Liz asked.

“Shhh,” said Dave.

“People, please,” I said. “Contain yourselves.”

Brand stared at me as if he didn't know if I was crazy or just joking with him. “Would you care to explain yourself?” he asked.

“Yes, yes I would. I would care a great deal. I believe you already know too much about my business.”

“Your business?” Brand was shouting now. He tapped his chest yet again. “In my town, it's my business.”

“Yeah, well, I'm not going to argue with you, John—”

“Mr. Brand.”

“Whatever. If you want a full share, you're gonna have to earn it.”

“A share?”

“I'll need at least three AK-47s, eight magazines fully loaded, four Kevlar vests, half a block of Semtex 10, two blasting caps—”

“A share?”

“How long is it going to take you to get all that together?”

“A share? Do you think you can pull a job in my town and dictate terms to me?”

“You keep saying your town, but the borders seem kinda loose. Where does it begin, where does it end?”

“It's whatever I say it is.”

“Where are you going to get the guns? Brian said something about Mexicans.” Brand gave Fenelon a look that could have powdered concrete. “Personally, I don't know what Mexicans are doing on the Canadian border…”

“That's none of your business,” Brand said.

“If we're going to be partners…”

“Partners?” Brand slapped the top of the kitchen table with such force I thought it might collapse. He rose quickly to his feet. That was bad. I needed him sitting down for what I had in mind. “Who do you think you're talking to?”