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Y
ou lost Yoda and SpongeBob in a swamp?” John raised his eyebrows and poked at the Greasy Grill’s notion of a Cobb salad. It
was a mound of iceberg lettuce in a Styrofoam box with a few slices of processed cheese and some strips of pink lunch meat
perched on top. His original idea had been to get something a little healthier for lunch today. That plan had backfired. All
he could think of was Ted York, keeling over into his—
“We followed the tracks as far as we could,” Torelli replied.
The younger agent was looking ragged around the edges. His razor-cut hair was plastered to his head at the temples, and his
hand-painted paisley tie was loosened and rumpled. One lapel of his navy suit jacket was stained.
John would bet a good chunk of next month’s paycheck that Torelli hadn’t looked at himself in a mirror lately. He stopped
himself from smirking. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Torelli growled, then thought better of it. “Yes, sir. The sheriff even brought in bloodhounds like we were in some
kind of escaped-prisoner movie.”
“I take it the dogs didn’t do any good?”
“They milled around and eventually took off running.” Torelli bit into his Reuben sandwich, narrowly missing dripping Thousand
Island dressing on his tie. Cocky bastard, flaunting his young arteries.
John raised a questioning eyebrow.
Torelli shook his head, swallowing. “Rabbit.”
“Figures.” John forked up a piece of limp lettuce. “You doing any better finding out who supplied them with the shotguns?”
Torelli had just taken another bite, so John had to wait for his reply. They were in the meeting room of the Winosha municipal
building again, the location chosen as much for its working AC as for the privacy. Sheriff Clemmons and Deputy Larson had
said they would join them for lunch, but they were late. Just as well. John didn’t want to step on local toes, but on the
other hand, he could get a lot of this business out of the way faster with just Torelli.
The younger man swallowed, took out a small cordovan-leather notebook, and flipped through it. He consulted a page. “Nald
lives with a maternal uncle out in the sticks on County Road G. We searched the shack they both inhabit, despite not having
hazmat suits. Aside from years of junk, we found three handguns—only one in working condition—two rifles, and an air gun.
Nald’s uncle says he used to have a shotgun but he hasn’t seen it in years and doesn’t remember what he did with it.”
John drank some iced tea from a Styrofoam cup. “So that might account for one shotgun.”
“I don’t think so. The uncle says he probably hocked the shotgun a long time ago.”
“Still. Let’s keep it in mind.”
“Sure.” Torelli shrugged.
“What did you find out about Fish—besides that his family is inbred?”
“You should’ve seen the place he lives in.” Torelli shook his head, crunching a potato chip.
John’s mouth watered. God, he hated salad.
Torelli flipped a page in his designer notebook. “Fish lives by himself in an efficiency apartment over the hardware store
on Main. Another dump. He has a mattress on the floor, a hot plate, and a fairly new TV. That’s about it.”
“Good to know he has priorities,” John muttered.
“Yeah.” Torelli finished his Reuben, wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, and leaned back. “Anyway, no weapons. We did find
a small stash of marijuana—less than half an ounce.”
“Not useful.” John gave up on the salad and stretched out his legs, as well. The metal folding chair he was sitting in squeaked.
“So where did these guys—”
“Sorry we’re late.” The sheriff and Larson strolled into the room. The deputy was slurping from an extra-large paper cup.
“No problem,” John said coolly.
He watched as the officers pulled out chairs and settled at the table. Clemmons plopped a brown paper bag on the table and
unloaded what looked like a homemade roast-beef sandwich and a bag of chips. Larson sat next to him and unwrapped the foil
from a huge bacon double cheeseburger, youthfully oblivious to the cholesterol count in such a monstrosity. He picked up his
burger and took a big bite, grease oozing down his chin.
Larson swiped at the grease and looked up, catching John’s eye. He blinked and offered the burger. “Want some?”
John waved a hand. “No. Thanks.”
“Found out what vehicle Turner Hastings switched her Escort for,” Larson said indistinctly around his second bite.
“Yeah?”
Larson nodded. “A light blue Chevy pickup, ’68. Talked to one of the guys in town who works on cars on the side. Said Tommy
brought it to him a year ago. Looked it up, and Tommy still has the Chevy’s registration.”
“Good work.” John nodded. “Torelli and I were just about to discuss the bank robbers’ means of employment.”
Sheriff Clemmons stopped chewing, his brow furrowed. “
Are
Fish and Nald employed?”
“I—” Torelli started.
But the deputy got there first. “Doesn’t Nald do some taxidermy with his uncle?”
Torelli looked confused. “Taxidermy?”
“Yeah.” The deputy sipped from his straw. “You know, stuffed animals?”
“I know what taxidermy is, but—”
“And he’s pretty good at it. Or at least his uncle is. You should see the badger they’ve got at the hardware store. It’s sitting
up with glasses on its nose and looks like it’s teaching a class. And the students are chipmunks!” Larson slapped his thigh.
“Funniest thing you ever saw.”
“I can only imagine,” Torelli began, New York accent thick and biting.
John cut in. “So what does Fish do?”
“Uh . . .” The deputy frowned at his burger, apparently stumped.
“Used to drive the school bus,” Clemmons offered.
Larson glanced up. “Oh, yeah. But that was before—”
“Last spring.” Clemmons shook his head. “Left the bus in gear and it got commandeered by Ralston Fish, worst nine-year-old
delinquent you’ve ever seen and a cousin of our Fish. Anyways, Ralston drove the bus into the Kwik Trip store. Fortunately,
he was only going about ten miles an hour at the time. No one got hurt, but the school board fired Fish nonetheless.”
John contemplated this rural morality tale, carefully keeping himself from meeting Torelli’s eyes.
The younger agent cleared his throat. “That means they’re both unemployed”—he caught Larson’s eye—“or at least not making
a whole lot of money, in Nald’s case. There can’t be a fortune in taxidermy. They’re prime patsies for Hastings—”
John opened his mouth, but the sheriff was ahead of him.
“I don’t know if we should assume it’s Turner masterminding this thing.” Larson and Torelli stared at Clemmons, and the sheriff
shifted in his seat, his face reddening. “I’ve known Turner a long time. Knew her mother and dad and Rusty Turner, too. She
doesn’t have any kind of police record, never been in trouble before in her life, not even a speeding ticket.”
“She was on the tape—” Torelli began.
“Breaking into Calvin Hyman’s box,” Clemmons interrupted testily. “I know that. But that doesn’t necessarily mean she got
Nald and Fish to do the bank robbery.”
“She did break into the Hyman house,” John said quietly. “She admitted as much to me.” He ignored Torelli’s sharp look, focusing
instead on the older man.
“Yeah, but she didn’t steal anything valuable, and breaking and entering isn’t a violent crime,” the sheriff said. “Not like
holding people at gunpoint.”
“Yoda and SpongeBob were hardly very violent. They looked as likely to blow off their own heads as someone else’s,” Torelli
scoffed, tilting back his chair so that it balanced on two legs.
“That’s my point. They shot out the skylight and the doors.” Clemmons’ voice was sharp. “Those two idiots hardly had control
of their weapons at all. We’re lucky they didn’t shoot someone purely by accident.”
“Yeah.” Larson shuddered. “Lucky I didn’t have my head blown off.”
“That’s right.” The sheriff nodded. “Whoever gave those two shotguns and sent them in the bank was taking a real risk that
they would shoot some innocent bystander. I can’t see Turner Hastings doing something that reckless.”
Torelli brought the front legs of his chair down. “Hastings broke into the Hyman home, rifled through Hyman’s desk and computer,
and took off with the dog, of all things. That looks pretty damn reckless to me.”
“She had cause!” Clemmons burst out.
Torelli raised his eyebrows skeptically. “What cause?”
The sheriff sat back and ran his hand through sparse hair. “Her uncle. You know he was fired for embezzling from the bank?”
Torelli nodded. “Mac briefed me.”
“Calvin fired him, and Turner took it pretty hard at the time. I’ve always kind of wondered if the case had gone to trial
if Rusty would’ve really been convicted.”
“He was never tried?” John asked.
“Nope.” Clemmons made a face. “Died of a heart attack before they could even set a date. ’Course, by that time he’d almost
beggared himself on lawyers and bail. And he had only Turner to lean on. Her brother didn’t bother coming home from California
until the funeral.”
“So she has even more reason to rob the bank and get back at Hyman.” Torelli shrugged. “I’m afraid you’re not making your
case, sir.”
John frowned. “Can you think of anyone else with motive to stage a robbery here?”
Clemmons snorted. “Sure. Any layabout in town.”
“But no one specific?”
The sheriff opened his mouth, then shut it. “No.”
“Then I think we should concentrate on Turner Hastings until we have another direction to go in.” He didn’t like saying the
words, but he had a job to do, and all the facts pointed to Turner.
Torelli nodded. “She definitely has some kind of agenda.”
“Yeah,” John said grimly, “and it involves Hyman. Where else might she go?”
“Go?” The sheriff looked startled.
“She’s searching for something. Where else might she look? Does Hyman have an office or a—”
“He’s got a fishing cabin,” Larson spoke up. Everyone looked at him. The deputy flushed. “On a lake somewhere.”
“It’s out by Rhinelander,” Clemmons said wearily. “I can get you an address.”
“Good.” John got up to throw away the remains of his lunch. “Larson and I will continue with Turner Hastings. Torelli, keep
looking for Yoda and SpongeBob.”
“Where?” Torelli had stood as well. “We’ve already tracked them to the swamp east of town.”
“They have to come out of that swamp somewhere, sometime.”
“Yeah, but they could be—”
“Do you have a problem with that assignment?” John asked.
“No, sir.” Torelli tossed the Styrofoam box his lunch had come in into the trash and walked out.
The sheriff raised his eyebrows. “Guess I’m with him.” He, too, left.
John looked at Larson. “I didn’t know Turner had a brother.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” The deputy flushed. “He lives somewhere in California. Like the sheriff said, he hasn’t been back to Winosha
in over four years. I didn’t—”
“Don’t worry about it,” John interrupted. “Let’s get his phone number. I’d like to talk to him.”
Maybe Turner’s brother could exonerate her. Or implicate her, for that matter.
T
he hardest part of being on the run was finding a comfortable spot to sleep at night, Turner had found. This was the third
night—Monday—that she’d slept in the pickup, and already she was tired of it. She loved the vintage Chevy, but its vinyl seat
was hard and narrow, and now she was sharing it with a dog. A really, really big dog.
Turner shoved at Squeaky’s bony rear end, but the poor animal had nowhere to go. She’d tried pushing him onto the floor of
the Chevy earlier, but he’d looked so pitiful down there, his enormous Great Dane body all bunched up in a smallish—for him—ball,
that she’d relented and let him back on the seat. Now he had the driver’s side and she was curled on the passenger seat against
the window. Maybe they should try sleeping outside in the open. But no, they’d be eaten alive by mosquitoes.
Turner sighed and shifted. Her left leg was falling asleep. If only the rest of her could fall asleep as easily. She stretched
the numb leg and thought about talking to Tommy earlier this afternoon. She and Squeaky had waited out John and Doug Larson
before sneaking down to talk to Tommy. The old man had been tickled to death that she’d stolen Calvin’s dog. He’d browned
some hamburger meat for Squeaky and fed it to him with a loaf of stale bread. The Great Dane had wolfed it all down in about
three seconds flat and looked for more, which had amused Tommy. Squeaky had ended up cleaning out Tommy’s fridge of leftovers
while Turner talked to the old man.
Tommy had not only known where Calvin’s lake cabin was, he’d even been there. Turner had been startled by that statement until
she remembered that once they’d all been friends, Calvin, Rusty, and Tommy. Long ago, back before Calvin had betrayed Rusty
and destroyed him.
And her.
The cabin was on a lake near Rhinelander in the northeastern part of the state, basically on the other side of Wisconsin.
By the time she’d left Tommy’s and trekked back to the Chevy with Squeaky, it had been getting on to late afternoon. Turner
had loaded the dog in the pickup and taken a back road heading south. She’d hoped to eventually hook up with Highway 8 and
take it out to Rhinelander, but as it got dark, she’d begun to have more and more trouble keeping her eyes open. Eventually,
she’d given up, pulled off the road, and called it a night.
Of course, now that she’d decided to give in to sleep, she couldn’t. She shoved at Squeaky again. He was snoring. If only—
Her cell went off in the dark, making her yelp. Squeaky raised his big head and looked at her questioningly. Turner dug through
her handbag, searching for the rectangular piece of plastic. When she found it, the number displayed on the little lighted
screen was familiar, even though it had no right to be.
“Hello?”
“Where are you?” His voice was gravelly tonight, as if he were tired.
This time she had a face to go along with the voice. She pictured him lounging in an armchair, his jacket off, long legs sprawled,
running a hand over his lined face. Would he have beard stubble at night, or not until morning?
She tried to make her own voice sharp, but it came out disconcertingly soft. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Just past eleven.”
“That was a rhetorical question. Most people are in bed by now.”
“Are you?”
She settled back against the Chevy door. Squeaky was snoring again on his side. “You know I’m not.”
There was a short silence. “Come in. Then you could have a bed. Air conditioning, hot water—”
“You know that’s not going to happen.”
“Turner—”
“Who made your coffee mug?”
“What?”
“Your mug. The one with purple flowers and a big pink—”
“Tommy’s,” he said flatly.
She was silent.
He took a breath—she could hear it even through the phone. When he spoke again, his tones were tight and angry. “Where were
you? I thought I searched that house and barn thoroughly.”
“I wasn’t there.”
“Then where did you see me if not at Tommy’s?”
“No.” Turner grimaced. “I meant, I was at Tommy’s, just not in the barn or house.”
“Then where?”
“What does it matter? I won’t go there again.”
This time his silence waited her out.
She gave in with a sigh. “I was in the woods above the barn. With Squeaky.”
“Shit.” He sounded disgusted with himself.
“There was no way—”
“The entire time I was talking to you?”
“Yes.” Now she felt guilty, and wasn’t that ridiculous? “Did your daughter make it?”
Amazingly, he followed her train of thought back to the coffee mug. “No, a niece starting kindergarten this year made it for
me. It was a Christmas present.”
“Ah.” It was crazy, but relief swept through her. He wasn’t married. “I thought you might’ve had a daughter—”
“I do. My daughter is sixteen. I haven’t talked to her in three years.”
She caught her breath. He’d said it matter-of-factly, but there was no way he could feel so blasé about being estranged from
a child. His child. Was he still married? “Why haven’t you talked to your daughter in three years?”
“Long story or short?”
“I’ve got all night,” Turner whispered. “Might as well make it long.”
“It’s not that long in any case.” His voice was brusque, as if he was sorry he’d consented to talk about his daughter. “I
married young, had one child, and then divorced. My ex remarried, then moved out to Washington state, and eventually her second
husband adopted my daughter.”
She was silent a moment, listening to crickets in the woods. “What’s her name?”
“Rachel.”
“That’s a pretty—”
He interrupted her banality. “Like I said, she’s out of my life. She hasn’t spoken to me for years.”
How that must hurt his pride. She didn’t see him easily giving up anything that belonged to him, especially not the love of
a child. “That must be hard.”
“I don’t want to talk about this,” he said flatly. “How’s Squeaky?”
Turner looked at the snoring dog. His head was resting on the steering wheel. She hoped he didn’t drool. “Cramped.”
He chuckled huskily. “Should’ve thought of that before kidnapping a Great Dane.”
“I prefer to think of it as a liberation.”
“Now you sound like an ecoterrorist,” he chided. “What’re you wearing?”
She blinked, caught off guard. “What kind of a question is that?”
“A kinky one.”
“I don’t think I know you well enough to play those kind of games.”
“Don’t you?” His voice was very low now, like a growl.
She glanced blindly out the truck window at the night. If he were close, she’d be frightened, and not just of being arrested.
Why did he have to be so perceptive, so smart, so
appealing?
“I don’t even know if you’re married now.”
“I’m not.”
“You’ve never met me,” Turner whispered.
“I’ve been through the panties in your dresser drawer.”
What?
She straightened. “You had no right—”
“It’s my job,” he clipped out. “You know that. The moment you opened Hyman’s desk drawer, the moment you smirked at that surveillance
camera in the bank, you set in motion events that can’t be changed. By you or by me.”
She clenched her fist into a ball. She knew all that, but to have him put it so bluntly was shocking. “You—”
He raised his voice over hers ruthlessly. “I’ll be doing more than looking in your lingerie drawer soon, honey. I’m going
to take you down. I’m going to be the one to put the handcuffs on you. No one but me.”
She found she was gasping for breath, her chest felt so tight. “Why are you saying these things to me?”
“Because I’m the damned FBI, that’s why. This isn’t a game for me, it’s my job. It’s what I do.”
“Then why are you talking to me?”
“I don’t know.” He sounded like he was biting off the words and crunching them between his teeth. “You made up the rules to
this thing before I was ever on the scene. I’m just along for the ride.”
“I should hang up on you.”
“You should,” he agreed, quieter now. “Don’t.”
“Why not?” She felt close to tears. “We’re on opposite sides, so far apart we might as well be on different continents. Different
worlds.”
There was a silence from the other end, and she closed her eyes, simply listening to him breathe.
“I talked to your brother today,” he finally said.
Her eyes snapped open. “Brad?”
“Yup.”
“Why?”
“It’s standard procedure to talk to the relatives of fugitives.”
She made a rude noise. “Fugitive—”
“And he’s your only living relative, isn’t he?”
She shut her mouth.
He waited, then continued softly. “Besides your father, that is.”
“You’ve done your homework.” She drew a deep breath. “I don’t think Dad really counts as family, since he moved away when
I was barely three.”
“Does Brad count?”
“Sure.” She wrinkled her nose impatiently. “Why wouldn’t he?”
“He says you hardly ever talk. The last he heard from you was a card on his birthday.”
“So? We’re both adults. What do you expect, daily phone calls?”
“Why not? I talk to my eldest sister at least once a week. More, if her teenagers are giving her hell and she has to vent.”
This was the second time he’d mentioned his family. She hadn’t pictured him with relatives of his own—it didn’t click with
her image of a tough FBI agent. Intrigued, she asked, “How many sisters do you have?”
“Three.” He sounded like he was smiling. “One older, that’s Lisa, and two younger, Sheryl and Karen.”
“No brothers?”
“Nope.”
“That must’ve been nice, growing up in a large family.”
“Not when you’re trying to get ready for school and there’s three girls in the bathroom, putting on makeup.”
“Even so—” She interrupted herself to yawn.
“You’re tired.”
“Sort of.”
“I should let you go so you can sleep.” But he didn’t hang up.
She cradled the phone between her shoulder and cheek and let her head fall against the seat. Outside, the crickets were in
full chorus, a sweetly sad sound.
“Goodnight, John,” she whispered.
“Goodnight, Turner,” he murmured in her ear.
She listened for the click and then hung up herself.
Through the windshield she could see a half-moon shining serenely in the night. The temperature had finally dropped, and she
shivered and wrapped her arms around her shoulders. There was nothing more melancholy than gazing at the night sky all alone.
