The Last Kind Word (31 page)

Is she late,
my inner voice asked,
or are you early?

I silently reviewed the schedule of comings and goings I had noted while Roy and I were watching the remote vault, even though I had gone over it ad nauseam the evening before. The employees left the vault at about 2:15
P.M.
, not long after the third armored truck departed on its daily run. They were back in place at 6:00
P.M.
, approximately one half hour before the first and second armored trucks returned from their routes. That gave them a three-hour-plus window to do what—eat, go to the movies, go fishing, do their laundry, shack up in one of the motels along Highway 1?

I glanced at the watch face again: 2:58
P.M.
with the vault only thirty minutes away if you obeyed all the traffic signs.

She is late,
my inner voice said again.
Or you're in the wrong spot.

Helluva time for second-guessing, I told myself, yet that's exactly what I was doing, reexamining in my head the sheaf of papers that I had obtained from Shelby.
The report with the paper clip in the center is the one you want,
she had said. I didn't even bother to look at the others. There was no need. I recognized the woman by her driver's license photo. Or did I?

Stop it.

I have been known to not always consider the consequences of my actions, only now I couldn't afford mistakes, none; not with Daniel studying my every move. He hadn't displayed any special interest in what I was doing—didn't so much as grunt back at the cabin when I pulled the cheap sneakers out from under the sofa and put them on—he just watched. He seemed to blink only once in a while and kind of deliberately, like an owl. I was amazed I was able to sneak out of the cabin last night and back in again without waking him. He was sitting next to me now in the Cherokee, his hands resting in his lap, perfectly relaxed. Jimmy and Roy in the backseat, not so much.

“How long are we going to sit here?” Jimmy wanted to know.

“As long as it takes,” I said.

“How long is that?”

“Is this the right house?” Roy asked. “It looks kind of abandoned to me. The grass needs mowing.”

“We should change the plan,” Jimmy said. “I never liked the plan. I still think my idea was better.”

“I like the plan,” Roy said. “On the other hand, just sitting here…”

“How 'bout from now on no one speaks unless something actually goes wrong,” I said, “and not even then.”

“How much time will we have in the vault again?” Jimmy asked.

“That's what I mean.”

“How much?”

“According to MapQuest, it's exactly 24.08 miles from the sheriff's department substation in Ely to the mouth of the dirt road. Get the call, get the car, get out of the city onto the highway, estimate a top speed of eighty miles per hour—think a nineteen-minute response time. Probably it's longer. Even so, we'll go with fifteen minutes. The road itself is 1.8 miles long. The average jogger will cover six miles per hour. The cops won't be jogging, though. Not with equipment, not when approaching a possible hostage-barricade situation. Their first move will be to locate and contain unless shots are fired, and we won't be shooting anyone, right? Right?”

“Right,” Jimmy said. Roy mumbled something. Daniel didn't say a word.

“It's possible the cops'll camp out on the road and wait for backup, except we won't make that assumption. Instead, we're betting they'll be walking carefully up the road at approximately three miles per hour. That's another forty minutes, call it thirty to be on the safe side. We should have forty-five minutes from the moment the alarm is triggered. I plan to get in and out in half that time.”

“You could have just said so,” Roy told me.

“I didn't want you to think I was making this up as I went along.”

“Wait a sec,” Jimmy said. “Why would the police walk up the road? Why wouldn't they drive?”

I glanced at him through my rearview mirror. “Were you paying any attention at all last night?”

I repeated my admonishment that everyone should keep quiet, yet I couldn't shut up myself. Nerves, I guess. After a few moments I said, “An old piece of verse I learned in high school keeps repeating in my head. Worse than a song you can't get rid of.”

“What?” Roy asked.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!”

Daniel's smile seemed positively joyful, yet it came and went so quickly that it was almost as if it had never appeared at all.

“Shun the frumious Bandersnatch,”
he said.

“Words of wisdom,” I told him.

“What are you talking about?” Jimmy wanted to know.

I didn't answer. Instead, I kept reviewing the plan in my head. So many details. I wanted more time, yet I could not leave Jill in Brand's hands for another night—I just couldn't. I made as many of the preparations myself as I was able, partly because it was easier than explaining it all to the others and partly to convince myself everything was done correctly. But mostly I did it because I needed to keep busy and not think too much. I was the one who put Jill in the jackpot. I could blame Bullert and the ATF all I wanted—and I did—yet I was the architect of this insanity and no one else. Jill was in danger because I wanted to play junior G-man, and the realization tied my stomach in knots. The nonstop work was because I was afraid that if I remained still even for a few minutes my growing anxiety would infect the others.

In between tasks I had briefed the Bandits relentlessly.

“Probably there will be complications,” I told them.

“What complications?” Josie had asked.

“I don't know yet. That's why they're called complications. Otherwise they'd be problems, and those we can solve ahead of time.”

That hadn't seemed to fill anyone with confidence. As it was, the last thing Josie said that morning before I sent her off was, “Should I be afraid now?”

“Probably,” I told her.

She had hugged me and kissed my cheek, and for a brief moment I told myself, if we get out of this alive …

And then the woman we had been waiting for drove up the street.

“Here we go,” I said.

She slowed as she approached the house, turned into the driveway, and stopped parallel to the side door. She got out of the car, pulling a large purse with her that she draped over her shoulder. Her long hair was dark, nearly black though not quite, and she wrapped it in one of those god-awful scrunchies to keep it out of her face. She was dressed as if she expected to spend the day working in her garden. She opened the trunk and heaved out two bulging paper grocery bags by the handles. After closing the trunk with her elbow, she carried the bags to the door, fumbled briefly with her keys, unlocked the door, and stepped inside the house, leaving the door open behind her.

Clever girl,
my inner voice said.

“Stay here,” I said. I opened the door to the Jeep Cherokee and stepped out. Daniel ignored the command and followed me. I didn't ask if maybe he wasn't being just a tad anal retentive in his compliance with Brand's orders—I didn't have the time. Instead, we crossed the street and the woman's lawn in a hurry, pulling on black ski masks as we went. I met the woman at the door. She was coming out just as I was going in. I grasped her throat with one hand and shoved backward. My other hand I filled with the bartender's SIG Sauer. I pushed the woman inside the house, pinning her against a kitchen wall. The way she gripped my wrists and fought to pull my hand away, you'd have thought I was trying to strangle her. I loosened my fingers on her throat, yet she gasped for breath just the same. I pointed the gun at her face.

“Where are your children, Ms. Rooney?”

Her eyes were large and fearful. Her voice was like the loud whisper of a stage actress. “Children?” she asked.

“Where are they?”

“At, at their grandmother's.”

“Do they always stay there while you're at work?”

“Yes. Yes, I see them … see them … after.”

“Do you love your children?”

“My children, yes, I love—my children—what are…”

“Your children are perfectly safe, Ms. Rooney. Do you want to see them again?”

“What are you saying? What do you want?”

“Do you want to see them grow up?”

“Please…”

“You must do as I say, Ms. Rooney.”

“Don't hurt me. Please…”

“I will not hurt you. I will not hurt your children. Everything will be fine if you do exactly what I say. Do you understand?”

“I don't understand anything.”

I tightened my fingers slightly. Rooney pulled her head up and away as if the pressure were too much. The words came out of her mouth as if she were speaking them with her last breath.

“I'll do what you say. Anything. Please don't hurt me.”

Daniel was standing inside the kitchen doorway and watching. I could see his eyes through the slits in the mask. They seemed flat and without emotion.

“Park the Cherokee in the driveway,” I told him. “Bring the others in. Remember, no names.”

He continued to watch me.

“What?” I said.

He turned and hurried out of the door. I released the woman's throat. She brought her hands up and massaged her neck.

“That hurt,” she said.

There was much I wanted to tell her; even more that I wanted to ask. I didn't get the chance. As I led Rooney into the living room I heard movement in the kitchen—Daniel must have waved Roy and Jimmy into the driveway instead of crossing over to the Cherokee as I had hoped. I quickly became Nick Dyson again.

“I won't tell you not to worry, Ms. Rooney,” I said. “There's plenty to worry about. Do what I tell you when I tell you and you'll be all right. You'll be back with your children in no time. Do you understand?”

Rooney settled into a stuffed chair and held her face in her hand.

“I understand,” she said.

*   *   *

Time moves slowly when you're not having fun. Jimmy and Roy spent most of it arguing. Twice I was forced to intervene. Daniel sat quietly until an idea crept into his head that prompted him to explore the other rooms. When he returned, he stood in front of Rooney's chair and looked down at her.

“There aren't any personal possessions in the house, Ms. Rooney.” he said. “Are you sure you live here?”

“I live with my mother,” Rooney answered. “Me and my girls. I've been trying to sell the house since my divorce, only I can't get any takers. I would have moved my furniture out, but the real estate agent says it's easier to sell the house if it's furnished, if it looks like someone lives there. I only come around to make sure it's okay or when I'm—”

“When you're what?”

“Entertaining.”

“You're not here every day, then?”

“No.”

Daniel believed her. Hell, I believed her and I knew better. Daniel shook his head at me.

“You're so lucky,” he said.

I quoted Branch Rickey, the baseball man who gave Jackie Robinson his chance: “Luck is the residue of design and desire.”

“Yeah, right.”

*   *   *

5:30
P.M.
by Skarda's watch. “It's time,” I said. I gestured at Rooney to stand, gave her an index card on which I wrote specific instructions, and told her to read it aloud. I made her do it three times. Afterward, I had her retrieve her cell phone and key the loudspeaker.

“Now call your boss,” I said.

He answered in the middle of the fourth ring.

“Jer, this is Carolyn Rooney…”

“Hi, Carrie.”

“Hi. I'm having trouble with my car…”

“What kind of trouble?”

Rooney was looking into my eyes when she said, “I have no idea.”

“Do you need a ride?”

“No, Jer. I have a friend who's going to loan me his car. I'm going to be late, though—might not arrive until after seven. I'll try to get there sooner…”

“That's okay, Carrie. Don't worry about it. Describe the car and I'll pass it along to security.”

“It's a Jeep Cherokee.” Rooney read the color and license plate number directly from the card.

“Okay,” Jer said. “We'll see you when we see you.”

Rooney deactivated her cell. “Now what?” she asked.

*   *   *

6:11
P.M.
and the cell phone I had borrowed from Jimmy was pressed against my ear. The Cherokee was parked on a side street just outside of Tower, Rooney behind the wheel. I was scrunched down on the passenger-side floor. I was wearing the black mask, black gloves, and Kevlar vest and cradling an AK-47 and was uncomfortable as hell. Daniel and Roy were on the floor of the backseat and fared no better. Jimmy, lying in the cargo area, probably had the worst of it, but then he was also holding a bomb.

“Hey,” Jimmy said. I told him he didn't need to whisper. He kept doing it anyway. “How much longer?” I didn't answer. “Hey?” At least he remembered not to use my name.

“Not long,” I said.

“You said that ten minutes ago.” When I didn't respond he added, “We should have taken my car. It's bigger.”

“Do you really want to leave your car at the scene of the crime?” I asked.

“Oh. Yeah.” A few more minutes passed, and Jimmy asked, “Is it going to take much longer?”

Rooney gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead, trying hard to keep her face blank, yet her eyes wondered where the hell I found these guys.

“Would someone please shoot the kid,” I said.

“If I could I would,” Roy told me. “I can't even turn my head, much less point the rifle.”

“Dyson.” This time it was Dave Skarda speaking. He sounded excited over the cell phone.