The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10)

The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10) Page 11

“Love you,” I said.

Josie sighed as if she had heard lots of other men say those words without meaning them and hung up. Skarda deactivated the phone and leaned back from the table just as I had. He folded his arms across his chest.

“We’re set,” he said.

“So it would seem.”

He smiled.

I smiled back.

THREE

Night falls harder in northern Minnesota than it does in most places. There are few cities, less ambient light—you can drive for tens of miles without seeing anything beyond your headlights except for the moon and the glitter of stars. We were on 53 heading north. I knew because the highway signs said so. Beyond that I had no idea where I was. Eventually we went northeast before catching a county highway with just the impression of traffic lines. The sign named Embarrass, Babbitt, Krueger, and Ely without listing how far away the towns were in miles. This was the heart of the Iron Range, as it was known in the Cities, or simply “the Range” to those who actually lived there—so named because of the rich iron deposits that had fueled the region’s economy for a hundred years.

“Where are we going?” I asked. I had asked before, but Skarda was being as coy with me as I had been with him on the drive to White Bear Lake, telling me where to turn and little else. Finally I reached over and gave him an idiot slap to the back of his head.

“Where are we going?” I asked again.

“To the cabin.”

“I got that part.”

“It’s a small place on a lake a few miles south of Krueger. We use it as a hideout.”

“A hideout? What are you, the Cavendish Gang?”

“Who are they?”

“From the Lone Ranger, the gang that—never mind. Tell me about the cabin.”

“It used to be owned by a stockbroker from Chicago. He died a year ago and his family has been trying to sell it ever since, only there are no takers. My sister is the real estate agent.”

“I suppose the real estate market is pretty tough up here.”

“Tough everywhere,” Skarda said. “Anyway, it’s isolated, which I guess is one of the reasons it’s so hard to sell. We’ve been using it because sis thinks it’s better that we’re never seen together in public. You gotta remember, around here everyone’s connected to everyone else. It’s kind of like Kevin Bacon except you don’t need six moves. Makes life complicated sometimes; hard to keep a secret.”

“Your sister, Josie—I’m going to take a flyer here and say she’s the brains behind this operation.”

“I suppose she is.”

I kept following Skarda’s directions, turning onto a gravel road that became a potted dirt road and finally a long-grass and short-brush path that reminded me of the logging road where we had left the deputy—was it only nine hours ago? The path led to a clearing. In the center of the clearing the Cherokee’s high beams swept over a small cabin. It was rust colored with white trim and supported on pillars of cinder blocks. There was a short flight of stairs that led to a sprawling wooden deck with benches, lawn chairs, a picnic table, and a charcoal grill. The cabin’s sole door opened onto the deck. Skarda had said something about a lake, but I couldn’t see it in the dark. I turned off first the engine and then the headlights. A square of light fell from a cabin window onto the deck, its edges engulfed by the night shadows. I spent a lot of time watching those shadows.

“Aren’t we going in?” Skarda asked.

“Shhh,” I said.

I reached up behind the seat and found the overhead light, sliding the switch so that it wouldn’t go on when I opened the door.

“What are you doing?” Skarda asked.

“Shhh,” I said again.

I opened the driver’s door and slid out, the Glock in my hand, staying as close to the Cherokee as possible. I hugged the frame as I made my way around the SUV to the passenger door. I opened it slowly. It took a few anxious moments to manage it in the dark, but I eventually opened the handcuff that had chained Skarda to the door. I eased him out of the vehicle and then recuffed his hands behind his back.

“Is that really necessary?” he said. He added an “Oh, geez” when he felt the Glock.

“Listen up,” I shouted. “I have the muzzle of a nine-millimeter handgun pressed against Dave’s back. Anyone fires a gun, anyone makes a sudden move, anyone does anything at all that I don’t like and I’ll cut his spine in half. Do we understand each other?”

There was silence, so I shouted again. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” a voice said from the darkness on my right.

“Yeah, okay,” said a voice on my left.

I nudged Skarda. “Dave, Dave, Dave,” I said. “After all we’ve been through together, too.”

“How did you know they were there?”

“What the hell, man? Did you really think this was my first rodeo?”