The Last Kind Word (2 page)

“Dave Skarda.”

“What did they bust you for?”

“Armed robbery.”

“Armed robbery,” I repeated slowly. “I won't ask if you have the money on you…”

“Well, no.”

“Where is it?”

“My gang. Deliver me to my gang and they'll pay you.”

“Your gang?”

“My crew.”

“Uh-huh. Whaddaya think, Deputy? Think Dave here has a crew?”

“I think he's a wannabe gangster who's going to spend the rest of his life in Stillwater State Correctional Facility if he steps one foot out of this car.”

“Hear that, Dave? Best keep your seat.”

“Bullshit.” He said the word as if he had invented it. “Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. I'm not messing with you, Dyson. Fifty thousand dollars. On delivery. You have my word.”

“Don't do this, Skarda,” the deputy said. “It'll only be worse for you later.”

“Shut up, just shut up,” Skarda said. “Fifty thousand dollars, Dyson. I promise.”

“If I take your word and you don't keep it—if you're lying you better say so now and no harm done cuz later's going to be too late.”

“I'm not lying. Trust me.”

Whenever anyone says “trust me” I automatically think the opposite, but I didn't tell Skarda that. “Okay,” I said. “Okay. It's always good to have a Plan B.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means—just be quiet for a while. Both you kids, be quiet. Daddy needs to think.”

While I was thinking I maneuvered the patrol car north on 169 until it intersected Minnesota Highway 18 and I went east. Traffic was not heavy. It was June in Minnesota, and you usually get an inordinate number of city dwellers heading to lake cabins and other getaways “Up North.” But it was also early afternoon on a Wednesday. I followed 18 until it merged with Highway 47 and I went south, effectively driving around the northern half of the enormous Lake Mille Lacs, where I had often fished for walleye. It was a pleasant drive, and I probably would have enjoyed it if I weren't on the run. Eventually 18 and 47 forked and I went east again. That's when the radio came alive. The signal was surprisingly strong and clear.

“Six-twenty-one,” a voice said.

It was the patrol car's call sign. I heard the deputy use it when he cleared St. Paul.

“Hey, Dave,” I said. “Keep the deputy quiet for a minute.”

“What?”

“Six-twenty-one,” the voice repeated.

I took the microphone from its holster and spoke into it.

“Six-twenty-one, go.”

“Six-twenty-one, what's your twenty?”

Before I could click the
SEND
button and reply, Olson started screaming, “Ten-ninety-eight, ten-ninety-eight, officer needs assistance.”

“Dammit, Skarda, what did I say?”

Skarda used his legs to brace himself against the door and then lunged to his side so that his elbows and shoulders fell on top of the deputy's head. The deputy screamed again, but this time Skarda's body muffled his voice.

“Six-twenty-one, say again,” the voice said over the radio.

“Six-twenty-one,” I replied. “Sorry 'bout that. I'm north on U.S. 169, just shy of State 210.”

“Six-twenty-one, running a little late, aren't you?”

“Six-twenty-one, there was some traffic in Aitkin.”

There was more muffled shouting from the backseat.

“Six-twenty-one, are you sure you didn't stop for a beer?”

“Six-twenty-one, I thought I'd wait until I got closer to home.”

“Six-twenty-one, what's your ten-seventy-seven?”

“Six-twenty-one, ETA is one hour.”

“Six-twenty-one, copy.”

I took a deep breath and returned the microphone to its holster.

“It's okay,” I said.

Skarda managed to roll off the deputy and sit up again.

The deputy sputtered his anger. “You're screwed, Skarda,” he shouted. “I'm going to have your head on a plate.”

“You have to take me with, now,” Skarda said.

“We'll see,” I told him.

“What does ten-ninety-eight mean, anyway?”

“Standard police code. It means prison break in progress.”

“You two are totally fucked,” the deputy said.

“I believe the basic code for that is ten-forty-five-F.”

*   *   *

Less than an hour later we crossed Interstate 35, still heading east.

“My friends are up north,” Skarda said.

“Mine aren't,” I replied.

Deputy Olson didn't say anything. He simply sat in the back of the Charger and made angry breathing sounds.

We ended up on County Road 30 and followed it toward the Wisconsin border. Near the tiny town of Duxbury it turned from pavement to gravel; a giant plume of yellow and orange dust followed us down the road. This was no-man's-land, thinly populated, little traffic.

The radio crackled, its signal not nearly as vibrant as it had been.

“Six-twenty-one.”

I ignored it.

“Six-twenty-one, do you copy?”

“Aren't you going to answer?” Skarda asked.

“Nope. Let 'em wonder.”

The turnoff came up so fast that I was fifty feet past it before I could stop safely. I put the Charger in reverse, backed up, and then turned in. It was a logging road used so long ago that now it was little more than an overgrown trail with plenty of potholes that made the Charger bounce like a carnival ride. I followed it deep into the forest until we reached the edge of a small river—it might have been the Lower Tamarack; I didn't know for sure and never cared to ask.

“Six-twenty—”

When I turned off the engine, the radio went with it.

Trees—poplar, birch, and fir—surrounded us. The only noise came from the wind in the branches and the low gurgle of the slow-moving water. The sun was high in the sky, and there were few shadows on the forest floor. It was the kind of place where a guy might pitch a tent and try his luck with a fly rod, where most people dream of escaping to and Minnesotans generally take for granted.

“Gentlemen, this is where I leave you,” I said.

“Here,” the deputy said. “Here?”

“Your guys aren't going to be looking for me. They're going to be looking for you. First things first, right? It's going to take a long time to find you here, GPS or not. By the time they do and turn their attention to me, I'll be out of the country.”

“Yeah? The average speed of a man hiking over unbroken ground is two miles per hour. How far do you think you'll get on foot?”

“All the way to where a car is waiting. Do you think I'm making this up as I go along, Deputy? C'mon.”

“Dyson, you can't leave us here.”

“Us?” Skarda said.

“You'll be all right until help arrives,” I told them. “There hasn't been a bear attack around here in, I don't know, weeks.”

“Us?” Skarda repeated. “You're taking me with you, right?”

“About that…”

“You promised.”

“No, I didn't. Good luck to you, pal.”

“Wait, wait, Dyson. What about the fifty thousand dollars? What about Plan B?”

“Yeah…”

“You can't leave me here. I helped you before. I helped you, remember? Remember? Forget the armed robbery. Even if I beat that rap, they'll send me to Stillwater for whatchacallit, aiding and abetting your escape. Right? Right?”

“How about that, Deputy?”

Olson's eyes were like roadside caution lights flashing
SEVERE ACCIDENT AHEAD
. “I look forward to testifying at your trial,” he said.

“You owe me,” Skarda said.

“Actually, you're going to owe me,” I said.

I opened the back door and helped Skarda out. He was smiling when I unlocked his cuffs. The smile went away when I relocked them with his hands in front of him.

“What's this?” he asked.

“Fifty thousand dollars,” I said. “The cuffs come off when I get the money.”

“This'll make it hard to walk.”

“Yes, it will.” I shoved him more or less toward the northwest. “That way.” While Skarda stumbled forward, I turned toward the deputy. “It's been a pleasure,” I said. “Sorry I couldn't stay.”

I locked him inside the patrol car and made a production out of dropping his car keys just outside the door where he could see them.

“Damn you, Dyson,” he shouted. I turned and walked into the woods. “Goddamn you.”

So far so good,
my inner voice said.

*   *   *

I'm a city boy at heart. I can't imagine living anywhere that doesn't have a professional baseball team, jazz clubs, and a wide assortment of Asian, Mexican, Greek, and Italian restaurants. Still, there were times when the city boy loved to visit the Great Outdoors, fish in pristine lakes, hunt unclaimed forests, or just hike the countryside in search of wildlife you can't see close to home, especially birds. I love the sight and sound of birds. I have a clock at home that announces each hour with the warble of a different avis. Trust me when I say it's not the same as hearing them in the wild.

The air was clean and warm in the forest, and I found myself breaking a light sweat as we walked. It would have been a pleasant journey if not for the constant whining of my companion—“The cuffs are too tight, it's too hard to walk, where are we going, are we there yet?”

“What are you, eight years old?” I asked finally. “Shut up and walk.”

“I want to know the plan.”

“The plan is you stop talking or I'm going to leave you here. Can't you just enjoy the scenery?”

“I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Oh, for God's sake.”

Skarda was not a bad guy unless you want to hold being a Green Bay Packer fan against him. He was born in Krueger, Minnesota, went to the University of Wisconsin at Stevens Point, and returned home to work in construction until the bottom fell out of the housing market. As far as I knew, in twenty-seven years he had never committed a single transgression against God or country until they caught him outside the ticket booth of a country music festival with a ski mask over his face and a Kalashnikov submachine gun in his hands. After he relived himself against the trunk of a tree, we continued walking.

All the tricks the Old Man taught me about finding my way in the woods were as fresh in my mind as if I had learned them yesterday, including how to locate the points of a compass using nothing but the sun, a wristwatch, and a blade of grass. I didn't need any of them, however. I had been over this ground before, and I knew exactly where I was going.

Eventually we broke through the trees and found a narrow gravel road with a drainage ditch on either side. A Ford Explorer was parked on the shoulder about a quarter mile up from where we emerged from the forest. A man was sitting on the driver's side of the SUV, his body twisted so that his legs hung out the open door. We were about a hundred yards away before he spotted us approaching.

“I almost gave up on you,” he said. “Who's he?”

Skarda had worn a worried expression on his face ever since I met him, so I didn't know if he was taken aback by my partner's question or not.

“Someone I picked up along the way,” I said. “Dave, Chad, Chad, Dave.”

“Jesus Christ, Dyson,” Chad said. “We're using names?”

“Beats saying ‘Hey, you' all the time.”

I moved to the back of the SUV. Chad popped the rear cargo door. There was a nylon bag in the cargo bay, and I opened it to find several changes of clothes. I pulled out a pair of jeans and a shirt and gave them to Skarda.

“You'll have to wear your own shoes,” I said.

Skarda held up his cuffed hands, a pleading expression in his eyes.

“Okay,” I said. “But let's not do anything stupid, all right?”

To emphasize my point, I took the deputy's Glock and set it where I could easily reach it but Skarda couldn't before I unlocked one cuff. I left the other wound around his wrist.

While we were changing clothes, Chad talked and paced, paced and talked. Mostly he was complaining about the change in plans, claiming that I was supposed to be alone. “Just you, you said. Just you. Everything's planned for just you.” He was another guy who didn't appreciate the beauty of his surroundings.

After I changed out of the jail scrubs into a pair of blue jeans, a polo shirt, and Nikes—looking every inch like a tourist from the Cities—I picked up the Glock and turned toward him.

“Someone once said that genius is the ability to improvise,” I said.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

I brought the Glock up, went into a pyramid stance, and fired three times. Tiny volcanoes of blood exploded out of his chest as he fell straight backward against the gravel road, his arms and legs spread as if he were attempting to make snow angels.

Skarda screamed, screamed like a bad actor in a horror flick.

“What?” I said.

“You shot him.”

“Of course I shot him. Are you telling me you wouldn't have?”

“He was your friend.”

“If Chad was my friend, why did he sleep with my girl? Why did he turn me in to the cops and try to steal my money?”

“He—he helped break you out?”

“That's only because the money isn't where he thought it was. Chad broke me out so I would lead him to it, and once I did, he probably would have killed me. Are you paying attention, Dave?”

Skarda looked as if every word would be indelibly etched in his brain forever and he wasn't happy about it.

“Stay here,” I said.

I slid the Glock between my jeans and the small of my back and crossed the gravel road to where Chad had fallen. I grabbed him under the shoulders, dragged him to the far ditch, and rolled him in. Afterward, I bent to go through his pockets. The depth of the ditch effectively hid Chad from Skarda's view.