Envy the Night (18 page)

He tipped two fingers off his forehead in a little salute and turned back to the car. She crossed the shop, stepped out the side door, and pulled it shut behind her, making sure that it locked.

When she was gone, Jerry got to work. He started with the hood, which he’d removed completely since it was damaged beyond repair. A day earlier, he’d have just tried to jam the bent piece of metal into the backseat with as many other loose parts as possible, tell Nora that it didn’t matter what condition the car was in if they were just transferring possession to the police. After her story, though, no chance. He still knew how to bust ass, how to do a job right, and after hearing what had happened, he’d be doing a lot more of it. Wasn’t his fault, he understood that, but it didn’t do much to ease the guilt. Fact was, while he was drinking beers and cutting a deal to sell equipment that wasn’t his, Nora was back here with some bastard shoving her into a wall. If the kid hadn’t showed up when he did . . . Jerry didn’t like to think it through much beyond that point.

He wrestled the banged-up hood back into place on the car, fastened it as tight as it would go. The damage kept it from closing all the way, but it was
attached and would stay on. By the time he was done with that, a good sweat was working its way across his scalp.

“Too damn hot,” he said aloud. He didn’t want the shop opened up like they kept it during the week, let people think they could stop by with a car, but having some fresh air wouldn’t hurt, either. A crack in the overhead door should do the trick. He crossed to the garage door opener and hit the button, let the big door rise about two feet off the floor, and hit the button again, freezing it there. Already he could feel a breeze shove through, sliding over his feet. That would help.

It was a pain in the ass putting a car back together without assistance, but Jerry had gotten better at that in the last few months. Nora was always trying to help, and, to be fair, usually
could
help, but he preferred to do things himself. To fasten the bumper onto the front of the car, he got one side lined up and bolted loosely, then walked into the paint booth and retrieved a rack they used for drying parts, brought it out, and set it up under the bumper in a way that kept the thing level and positioned well enough that he could get the bolts lined up and tightened. He dragged the creeper over, hitched up his pants, and settled down with his knees and face pointed up at the ceiling. Using his heels, he shoved backward, and the creeper slid under the car so he could get at the bumper bolts, leaving only his lower body exposed.

It was dark under the car, and he had to feel with his fingers to get the wrench in place. Once he had it set the procedure was simple enough, working the wrench with a practiced motion. He’d been on his back under a car since well before he could drive one, watching his daddy labor over a fastback Mustang that he’d bought wrecked, with visions of restoring it to Steve McQueen quality. He’d never gotten it done, but he’d hooked his son on cars. Thirty years later, Jerry was still with it.

He got the bolts on the driver’s side fastened and was working the creeper over to the passenger side when he heard the overheard door rattle ever so gently. It was just a slight shake, one that could have been from the wind, but when he turned his head to look he saw two feet. Someone was walking the length of the door while Jerry lay there on his back and watched. Someone in polished black boots. Jerry knew those boots. He’d seen them tapping a soft beat off a bar stool not twenty-four hours earlier.

The son of a bitch was back. This time he didn’t have a friend in Jerry, either; what he was
going
to have was a wrench upside his head. Jerry had extended his feet, ready to use his heels to pull himself forward and out from under the car, when he saw a hand appear next to the boots, and then a knee. AJ was coming inside. Crawling under the door and coming inside.

He was a coward for doing it, knew this well, but Jerry pushed with his heels instead of pulling, slid all the way under the Lexus. There was something about this that took him from angry to scared in one blink. What was the guy thinking, crawling into the shop like that? They’d agreed to meet at Kleindorfer’s hours from now. So why violate the plan, take this sort of risk?

Resting on his back on the creeper, his nose a few inches from the rear transfer case, Jerry kept his head rolled to the left so he could see his visitor’s approach. AJ crawled under the door and straightened up, and then all Jerry could see was his feet as he walked into the shop. Then the feet passed out of his field of vision and he was reliant upon only his ears, listening to the slow claps of boot heels on concrete.

He held his breath in his chest like a dear secret as the boots came and went again in his sight line. AJ seemed to have made a full circle of the shop, was now probably standing in front of the Lexus. Peering into the office, maybe, seeing that it was dark, seeing that the place was empty. Now, if he’d just crawl back under that door and walk away, Jerry could get up and lower the garage door, lock the place up tight, and give the cops a call. Nora hadn’t planned a course of action yet, but this was the second time one of these bastards had broken into the shop, and that was crime enough. Even if Jerry took some heat from the cops, they needed to pick these boys up. Somebody had to answer for Mowery.

There was the metallic bang of a gear engaging, and then a loud hum as the garage door lowered and thumped to a stop against the floor, closed tight. The sound made Jerry lift his head too far and too fast, his forehead making solid contact with the transfer case. He blinked hard and dropped his head again. Why had AJ lowered the door? What the hell was he thinking of doing now?

“You going to stay under that car all day, Mr. Dolson?”

The voice drawled out of the air above him; Jerry could still see no boots to tell him where the man was standing. He was caught. Damn it. Now a dose of embarrassment mingled with his fear. Hiding under the car like a little girl under her bed. That wasn’t right, and he should’ve have known it from the start, met this bastard on his feet and with the wrench in his hand. Using the self-reproach as fuel, Jerry slammed his heels onto the floor and pulled himself forward, out from under the car and right into the barrel of a gun.

__________

F
rank tried calling the body shop as soon as he got back to the cabin, where a steady cell signal came through. Voice mail. A second try found the same result. He didn’t have a cell number for her, either, so the trip back to the cabin now seemed to be in vain.

He pulled the boat higher onto the beach and was halfway to the cabin when his phone rang again, an unfamiliar number on the display. He answered, heard Nora’s voice say his name, and was surprised by the strength of the relief he felt.

“Yeah, it’s me. I just tried calling you back at your shop.”

“I just left it,” she said. “Are you at your cabin?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m on my way. I’d like you to come into town, and of course you can’t do that because you have nothing to drive.”

“Something happen?”

“You suggested we leave my car where it is, not bring the police out there, because it might be better for me. Safer. Right?”

“Right.”

“Okay. Now, if I told you that the two from last night were going to be at Kleindorfer’s Tap Room at seven tonight, would you still say I should keep my distance? Or does your advice change at that point?”

“Tell me what happened,” was all he said.

_______

The story she told wasn’t a surprising one, not really, but even before they hung up he knew his response would be different from hers. He was unsettled by Nora’s obvious enthusiasm for bringing the police in. If her body man was honest about the situation, and there really was a meeting scheduled at this bar, yes, he could see the appeal of setting a trap. So would the men who’d set the meeting, though. It went back to what he’d already told her repeatedly: These guys were pros.

He didn’t blame them for recruiting her employee as an ally. That had the touch of professional work, too; why risk a strong-arm move when the tickle of a little cash in the palm accomplished the same thing?

They’d played it both ways, though, and that was what he didn’t understand. Why recruit the body man and attack Nora the same night? Why take a step to avoid a strong-arm move and then still
make
the strong-arm move?

Because they weren’t together.

No, they hadn’t been together. That was one of the concerns he’d pondered as Nora drove him to the cabin, one of the problems he couldn’t resolve to his own satisfaction. Why had the second man waited until after his buddy was in handcuffs to help? He’d waited because he wasn’t there yet. It hadn’t been a
wait
at all; he’d arrived at that moment and been forced into action. So that meant that the second guy was the smarter of the two, probably. He’d been at the bar trying to buy off Nora’s employee while his friend had been, what, stationed back at the shop to see if she moved the Lexus outside at closing? That made sense. Only the guy stationed at the shop hadn’t been patient enough. He’d gone into action, and his friend had to pull his ass out of the fire. Now their presence in town was anything but discreet.

Frank walked back to the cabin thinking about that final realization: These two guys, if there were only two, now understood that their situation in Tomahawk had changed. It was a small town, a town where gossip spread fast and strangers stood out, and now everyone would be talking about them, the police looking for them. It added an element of pressure. Would they wait patiently for a meeting with Nora’s employee? He knew
his
answer to that, and it wasn’t comforting.

He unlocked the cabin door and went inside, washed up, and changed into a clean shirt. Then he put the suitcase aside and pulled a metal case onto the bed, flipped the latches and opened the lid, and withdrew the two holstered and well-oiled handguns beneath.

His father’s guns: a 10 mm Smith & Wesson and a .45-caliber Glock. They should have been the day’s project. He’d thought about taking the boat out to the right spot, Muskie Point, maybe, or somewhere among the stumps of Slaughterhouse Bay, and feeding the guns to the lake. It would be a most heavy-handed gesture, yes, but it was one he still wanted to make. He wanted to hold his father’s violence in his hands, feel the heft of it, and then leave it behind in a place without regrets, a place of clean memories.

They wouldn’t be sinking today. He knew that as he recalled Nora’s voice on the phone, all that excitement because she thought this meeting represented the end of the problem. Frank knew it was anything but that. Jerry was just another loose end, and, sadly, another loose end connected to Nora.

He had the Smith & Wesson in its shoulder holster and concealed under a thin jacket by the time Nora arrived.

Spend enough time around firearms, and they’ll fail to inspire the same sense of terror that might catch a novice, even when the weapon in question is pointed at your heart. Jerry wasn’t thrilled to see it, no, but he wasn’t about to wet his pants or anything, either. Guns were guns. Only thing to worry about was the man who held it. And that man hadn’t shot him yet.

“You don’t look happy to see me, Mr. Dolson,” AJ said, sliding his thumb up and down the stock of the gun the way he’d handled the vodka glass the day before.

“I’m not. We had an agreement, and this ain’t part of it. Why don’t you go on down to Kleindorfer’s and wait for me, like we planned?”

“You were down here with the girl,” AJ said. “Your boss. She have anything to tell you?”

“Nope.”

“You’re a bad liar, Mr. Dolson.”

Jerry worked his tongue over his teeth and steeled his eyes against the other man’s empty gaze.

“And you’re a Grade A piece of shit, buddy. Coming in here and beating up a woman.”

“I didn’t lay hands on anyone.”

“Then your buddy did. Which makes you both Grade A pieces of shit, all right? Now you get the damn gun out of my face and get on your way.”

“We had an agreement.”

“I don’t make agreements with people who beat up women.”

“All the same, one was made. And I’m going to need that tracking device.”

“Don’t have it.”

“Who does?”

He started to say Nora’s name, then stopped. It was wrong both ways; first of all, it might send these assholes back after her, and, second, she didn’t even have it. Thing was still sitting in his locker, waiting to go to the police.

“Put that gun down,” Jerry said.

“That will make you comfortable? Maybe then we can talk this through, work something out?”

Jerry wasn’t about to talk anything through, and any chance of working something out had ended the minute he heard what happened to Nora. He didn’t like staring into that tiny muzzle, though, so he nodded.

“Maybe we can.”

AJ pistol-whipped him in the face. Jerry had time to lean backward maybe six inches and half-lift the wrench in his hand before the gun caught him just under his right eye and knocked him back into the Lexus. His ribs slammed against the grille, the wrench fell from his hands, and then he took another blow from the gun, this one across the back of his head, right near the top of his neck. It brought him down almost to his knees, hanging on to the car to keep from hitting the floor. All wasted effort, though; the third swing was harder than the first two, and it took all the resistance out of him, left him stretched on his back with one leg hooked over the creeper, looking at the corrugated metal ceiling that now bloomed with a dozen colors.

Jerry watched the colors dance and bit down on the tip of his tongue, trying to clear his head. It didn’t work. He bit harder and tasted blood but still the room reeled, and when he felt someone moving his hands he could make only the slightest resistance. A cord bit into the flesh of one wrist, then the other. AJ was tying his hands.

“Is the girl coming back?”

Jerry didn’t say anything. When he tried to pull his hands forward, he felt unyielding resistance. He was tied to something. Maybe the Lexus. He heard AJ walking away, blinked hard, strained to lift his head. The gun was out of sight now, but AJ was at Jerry’s toolbox, had the drawers open, was lifting a ten-pound maul out. No, no, no. Put that thing down. Please put that thing down.