The Last Kind Word (25 page)

You must have caught her in the wrong light,
my inner voice said.

“We need to talk,” she said.

I grabbed a fistful of sheet and blanket and pulled them up around my chest. “What time is it?” I asked.

“Little before eight.”

“In the morning? Josie, one of the reasons a guy might turn to a life of crime is so he doesn't have to get up early.”

“Eight o'clock is early?”

“What do you want?”

“I'm worried.”

“Suddenly you're worried…”

“Are you awake?”

“What? Yes, I'm awake.”

“You sound cranky.”

“JoEllen…”

“I like that you call me that. Almost no one ever does.”

“I have a gun. I will shoot you.”

“Are you one of those people that need a cup of coffee before they can start the day? I'll make it.”

“No, no, no,” I said. “I'll make it.” I swung my legs off the edge of the bed even while gathering the sheet and blanket around my waist. “Give me a minute to take a shower and get dressed.”

“If you're going to do that, I'm going to go jump in the lake.”

“Yeah, you do that.”

Josie stood and started pulling off her scoop-neck shirt to reveal a bikini top. I averted my eyes but not before I noticed that her face wasn't the only place that had freckles. All the while my inner voice chanted,
She plays ball in a different league, she plays ball in a different league …

Forty-five minutes later I was clean, shaved, and dressed. Josie was sitting at the kitchen table. Her hair was damp and clung to her neck and shoulders; her bottom was wrapped in a beach towel, but her top was exposed. Again I tried not to stare. She took a sip from her coffee mug.

“How do you make such good coffee?” she asked. “You use the same ingredients I do, yet your coffee tastes so much better than mine.”

“It's a gift,” I said. I filled my own mug and joined her at the table. “I'm awake, I'm dressed, my gun's in the bedroom—what worries you, JoEllen?”

“John Brand worries me.”

“As well he should.”

“You don't trust him, do you?”

“About as far as I could throw this cabin.”

“Are you really going to give him a million dollars.”

“I didn't promise him a million dollars. I promised him a third of the take. I expect it to be closer to half a million.”

“Oh.”

“No need to tell him that, though, is there?”

“No. No, I guess not. What if…”

“He tries to rip us off?”

“Yes.”

“Don't worry about it. I have it covered.”

“Something else.”

“Hmm?”

“The sheriff deputies—Dyson, how did they know where we would be when they pulled us over the other day? You don't think it was a coincidence, do you?”

“I don't believe in coincidences. On the other hand, they do happen. They happen all the time.”

“What does that mean?”

“Don't be paranoid.”

“There's a spy, Dyson. Someone in my family. Or Claire—I don't think of her as a member of the family. Someone, anyway, someone who was in the cabin when we left. Someone who—”

“That's what I mean by paranoid.”

“Are you saying it's not true?”

“Sweetie, even the bartender at Buckman's knows I'm here. You don't think the deputies knew? They probably were on the lookout for me, waiting for a chance to have a private conversation.” I quoted the word “private” with my fingers. “If they rousted me in front of witnesses, they'd have to bring me in, and they didn't want to do that. Too much paperwork. They saw us on the road, and there you go. Simple.”

“Are you sure?”

Hell no,
my inner voice said. I wasn't sure—nowhere close to it. The very last thing I needed, though, was for the Iron Range Bandits to start pointing fingers at each other. When the time came, I would do all the pointing that was necessary.

“Yes, I am,” I said aloud.

She stared at her coffee mug for a few beats. “Don't call me sweetie,” she said.

“My mistake.”

“I like that you call me JoEllen, though.”

“So you said.”

“You shouldn't—you should be careful about calling me that when other people are around.”

“Why, if you like it?”

“That's what my ex-fiancé sometimes called me, and people might get the wrong impression.”

“Are you afraid they might think that you and I are … Wait a minute. Ex-fiancé?” I saw it then, the look in her eyes. It was like when you catch someone watching you at a party and they quickly look away, pretending that they weren't watching at all. “You lied to me. You're not gay. Or even bi, for that matter. Are you?”

“No.”

“What the hell?”

“You were getting all anxious and concerned and, I don't know, guyish.”

“Guyish?”

“You know what I mean, the way guys behave when they're around women.”

“Oh, for God's sake.”

“Admit it, you were being guyish.”

“I don't admit it, and even if I was—so?”

“I thought it would be best if I took it off the table, given the stakes and everything.”

“Tell me—given the stakes and everything, why are you putting it back on the table now?” She didn't answer the question, so I did. “You're the one behaving guyish, girlish, whatever, not me.”

“Am I?”

“Put your shirt back on.”

She glanced down at her chest and back up at me. “Why?”

“You know damn well why.”

“Explain it to me.”

“No. No. This is not happening. This cannot happen. Remember what I told you before? Double it.”

“You mean about wanting a slice of Dyson pie?”

I was standing next to the door of the cabin with no idea how I had gotten there. “Stop it,” I said. “C'mon, now.”

“I like you, Dyson. It's as simple as that. Do you like me?”

“No.”

“For a macho professional thief, you sure are a terrible liar.”

“JoEllen…”

She smiled at the sound of her own name. “Nick,” she said. “We're both adults.”

“Who says?”

“We could take the pontoon out on the lake—”

The noise of heavy footsteps on the steps of the deck outside cut her short. I stepped away from the door. A few moments later Skarda walked in.

“Hi, Dave,” Josie said. She was standing next to the coffeemaker. She was now wearing her shirt; the towel was still wrapped around her hips. “Do you want some coffee?”

“No.”

“Dyson made it.”

“Maybe a half a cup, then.”

I was standing in front of Jimmy's map. “What brings you here?” I asked.

“I had nowhere else to go,” Skarda said.

“Liz?”

“Liz wonders what's going to happen afterward. She wonders—I'm an escaped fugitive and she wonders what's going to happen to us.”

You're going to prison, I told myself. As soon as the ATF gets the guns off the border every law enforcement agency in the region is going to swoop down on you and the other bandits—and there's nothing I can do about it. The thought made me feel low. I turned my attention back to the map so I wouldn't have to look at him or his sister.

“One problem at a time,” I said.

“I could go to Canada with you,” Skarda said.

“No,” Josie said. She moved to the living room and handed Skarda his cup of coffee. “You can go to Canada, but not with him. Isn't that right, Dyson? You told me yourself, you're here for the money, and once you get it, you're out the door and down the street and you won't be coming back.”

“Something like that,” I said.

“And you prefer not to leave any misunderstandings behind.”

“None.”

Josie lifted both of her hands the way some people do when they're about to ask a question and then let them fall to her sides. “I need to get dressed,” she said. A moment later she disappeared into the bedroom.

“What's with her?” Skarda asked.

“She's wondering what's going to happen the day after, too.”

“What is going to happen?”

I wanted to tell him; wanted to tell them both. Sit them down on the deck and explain who I was and what I was doing there—screw Bullert, screw Finnegan, screw the ATF, the FBI, and all the rest. I had come there because I thought I might be able to do some good and because I thought it might be fun.

What do you think about the idea now?
my inner voice asked.

I ignored Skarda's question as well as my own and turned my attention back to the map.

*   *   *

After that, it was the three of us hanging around doing nothing. I decided it was a good idea to let them see me preparing my plans for the heist, so I retrieved the camera I had used the day before. I plugged it into the PC that Jimmy had left at the cabin and started surfing the photos I had taken at the remote vault. I studied the white building from all angles, the fence, the trail, the creek, everything. The more I did, the more sure I was that I could actually rob the place. The thought excited me even as my inner voice chanted,
Don't be an ass.
I dismissed it—as I often had before doing something stupid—and started carefully jotting down all of the license plate numbers of the vehicles I had photographed. Josie wanted to know why. “Looking for a key,” I told her. When I finished, I came
this
close to pulling out my cell and calling Chad Bullert before catching myself.

“I need a phone,” I said. Josie gave me hers. I stopped myself again.

Okay, now what?
my inner voice asked.
You can't call Bullert directly. What if Josie or one of the other bandits traced the phone number? It was an easy thing to do these days with the Internet.

What else can I do, I asked myself. We had not worked this out in advance, setting up a go-between to whom I could clandestinely pass information. 'Course, I had expected to be home long before now. I'm sure Bullert expected the same. I could have gone for a hike alone in the woods or taken the pontoon out on the lake, made my calls where there was no one to hear. I was afraid of how Josie and Skarda might react, though. I had no fear that they would guess I was a police spy, but rather that they would imagine I was betraying them to Brand or the deputies or both.

I decided I had to use the cell in front of them. The problem—whom could I call? Several people came to mind, only I couldn't remember any of their phone numbers. They had all been listed alphabetically by first name on the contact log of my cell phone; I would just click on them. I had memorized only one phone number in my entire life—a number I had called perhaps a dozen times a week since I was in kindergarten.

I inputted it on the keypad of Josie's cell. A few moments later a woman answered. “Hello,” she said. I paused so long that she said “Hello” again before I replied.

“Hey, sweetie,” I said. “It's good to hear your voice. This is Nick Dyson.”

“Who?”

“I'm sorry it's been so long since I've been in touch. How's your mom?”

“Oh. My. God. McKenzie.”

“Yes.” I deliberately smiled when I spoke, partly for Josie and Skarda's benefit and partly because I was hoping Shelby would hear it in my voice.

“Are people listening?” Shelby asked. “Do you want me to call you Dyson?”

“Yeah, but you know, I move around a lot.”

“You're still undercover and you need my help?”

“I am so happy for you, honestly.”

“Bobby is going to go crazy.”

I started laughing. “I imagine he will,” I said. “Tell me, sweetie, do you still work for Driver and Vehicle Services?”

“Ahhh…”

“How about your friend, Harry?”

“Harry? Harry from the FBI, that Harry?”

“Just goes to show, once you become a member of what's the name of the union—American Federation of State, County, and Municipal Employees—once you become a member, it's impossible to get fired.”

“You're going to tell me something and you want me to pass it on to Harry,” Shelby said.

“You're too smart to be that pretty. Or is it the other way around?”

“Let me get a pencil.”

I heard Shelby set down the handset. I covered the cell's microphone and found Josie and Skarda. Josie was watching me, but Skarda was staring out the window.

“She went to get a pencil,” I said.

“Who is she?” Josie asked.

“Just a girl. Knew her when we were kids.”

“Uh-huh.”

A moment later, Shelby was back on the phone. “Shoot,” she said.

“I'm going to give you a list of license plate numbers.” I recited them slowly and carefully, although, in the big scheme of things, they didn't really matter. “Got 'em?”

“Got 'em,” Shelby said. “Now what?”

“I need whatever information you can give me about the drivers.”

“Does Harry know why?”

“Harry has a friend named Chad—remember him?”

“No.”

“Chad is the IT guy.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

Think it through,
my inner voice said.

“I'm hoping you'll get Harry to ask Chad to give me the name of someone off the list who might be able to help me out on something I have going.”

I looked at Josie again and made a motion with my hand that suggested Shelby was ditzy.

“You want me to call Harry and tell him to call Chad, whoever he is,” Shelby said. “Somehow they'll know what you're talking about.”

“That would be perfect.”

“This is better than
NCIS.
”

“I'm glad you think so.”