Authors: William Kent Krueger
H
E HEARD THE
phone ring, looked at the clock beside the bed, wondered who would be calling at two in the morning. In the hallway, the floorboards creaked, and Mal Thorne said, “Hello?”
He didn’t say anything else. A minute later, a cupboard door squeaked open in the kitchen, followed shortly by the rattle of glass in the refrigerator.
Cork threw back the covers, pulled on his pants, and slipped from the room where Jo lay sleeping.
The kitchen light was on. Mal stood at the counter near the sink, a glass of milk in one hand, a cold chicken leg in the other. He held up the leg. “There’s more in the fridge if you’re hungry.”
“No, thanks.”
Mal wore a white T-shirt, red gym shorts, white socks. “Trouble sleeping?”
“Can’t get my eyes to close. My brain won’t stop working. Who was on the phone?”
“Nobody there. Second time tonight. Would it help you to talk?”
“Maybe.”
Mal used the chicken leg to point toward the kitchen table. “Confessional’s open.”
Cork sat down. His feet were bare and cold on the linoleum.
“I’ve been thinking about everything that’s happened recently,” he said. “A lot of what’s occurred I understand now, but I’m having trouble understanding my place in all this.”
“How so?”
“Jo’s a wonderful woman.”
“You won’t get an argument from me on that.”
“She didn’t want me to take the job as sheriff, Mal.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“No, but I knew. She’s always been afraid of the effect it’s had on our family.”
“Cork, if you’re going to start blaming yourself for what’s happened—”
“It’s not that, Mal. It’s a realization. I was doing fine running Sam’s Place. It’s a pretty location there on Iron Lake. I grilled good burgers. I set my own hours, closed up at night, went home, and what did I have to worry about except making sure there were enough potato chips for the next day? Now I lie awake worrying about everything. The department budget, county politics, the safety of my people.” He glanced toward the hallway. “The safety of my family.”
“Why did you take the job?”
“I told myself there were good reasons, but in the end it was pride, plain and simple.”
“I suspect there was more to it than that, but I understand what you’re saying. So what are you going to do?”
The fridge kicked on, and the hum grabbed Cork’s attention. He looked at the refrigerator door, which was decorated with photos, mostly ones Jo had sent of the children and her and Cork.
“I’m going to quit. When I get back to Aurora, I’m going to tender my resignation.”
Mal took a bite from the chicken leg and didn’t seem inclined to argue.
The phone rang in the hallway.
“There it is again,” Mal said. “The caller who isn’t there.” He got up to answer. “Hello?” He paused. “Yes, he is. Just a minute.” He brought the cordless into the kitchen. “It’s Dina Willner, for you.”
“Dina, what’s up?”
“Make sure the lights are out, then carefully look out the front window.”
Cork said, “Kill the lights, Mal.”
Mal did as Cork asked and followed him to the front room. Cork parted the curtains a crack.
“What am I looking for, Dina?”
“Black Malibu two houses down, far side of the street.”
He located it parked in a place where the streetlights didn’t quite reach. “I don’t see anything. Wait.” Inside the Malibu, a match flared, lighting a cigarette perhaps. “Okay, I make ’em.”
“They’ve been watching for a while.”
“Who are they?”
“Lou threatened you this morning. I’d say he’s making good on that threat.”
“A hit?” Cork eyed the Malibu fiercely. “Where are you?”
“In the alley back of the duplex. Get dressed and get out here. You have a firearm, bring it.”
“Winnetka PD took it.”
“Then just get out here.”
Cork handed the phone to Mal.
“What is it?”
“See the black Malibu? Dina thinks there’s someone in it who’s been paid to kill me.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Let’s call the police.”
“Wait, Mal. There’s not much they could do at this point but roust the guy. If it
is
a hit, that would only delay the inevitable.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Dina’s out back. I’ll talk to her. Maybe we can come up with something. Don’t wake anybody.”
Cork went to the bedroom, dressed quietly, put on his windbreaker, and paused a moment before he walked out. Jo lay on her side, the top sheet half covering her face. She looked peaceful, and he wanted her to stay that way. He closed the door silently as he left.
In the kitchen, Mal said, “Take the back stairs. I’m going to keep an eye on the guy out front. You know Dina’s cell phone number?”
Cork gave it to him.
“He moves, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks, Mal.”
Outside was a small landing with a flight of wooden stairs that led down to the backyard. Cork descended, crossed the yard, and went out a gate near the garage. Dina was parked in the alley, in a dark blue Honda Civic.
“What happened to the Ferrari?” Cork asked when he got in.
“This car doesn’t shout when I’m on surveillance.” Her eyes shifted to the mirror, then back to the alley in front of her. “Among the calls I made after we talked this afternoon were a few discreet inquiries about Lou and those threats he made. Couple hours ago I got a call back. Lou got things going fast. There’s a contract on you. Half a million is what I was told.”
“He wants me dead pretty bad.”
“Half a million is nothing to Lou. It gets worse, because it’s not just a hit, Cork. It’s a bounty. It’s open season on you. Whoever gets to you first.”
“If I’m hit, Lou Jacoby’s the guy the cops will look at.”
“He’s old. He’s lost everything. Probably in his thinking, his life’s over. He goes to jail or even to death row, big deal. I know Lou. He won’t hesitate to do what he feels he has to. That includes collateral damage, Cork.”
“My family?”
“Or whoever happens to be with you at the time. Half a million dollars is a lot of incentive not to be neat.”
“What if we brought in the police, Adam Gabriel, say, and NORTAF?”
“What can they do until somebody actually tries something? You know how that goes. Even if they wanted to help, they can’t watch your back twenty-four/seven. And we both know there are badges up here on the Jacoby payroll. You deal with them and everything gets funneled right back to Lou.
“I worked a case in New Jersey. We had a witness sequestered in a farmhouse outside Passaic. Somebody—a badge, we suspected—leaked the location. The place got hit with three rocket-propelled grenades. Killed the witness and two federal agents. You don’t want that to happen to your family.” She looked grim and sorry. “You need to find a safe place to disappear for a couple of days.”
A flare of anger shot through Cork, seemed to explode in his brain. He slammed his fist into the dashboard. “I’m not running, Dina. I’ll talk to Lou Jacoby, pound a little sense into that old man if necessary.”
“You barge in, you really think he’d back down? Hell, he’d probably shoot you himself.” She put a hand gently on his arm and spoke calmly. “Right now you need to back off. Let us gather enough evidence to convince Lou to listen to reason. With Ed Larson working his end and me here, we’ll have what we need in a couple of days, I promise.”
“A lot of homicides never get solved.”
“A lot of homicides don’t have me working the case.”
He knew she was right, knew that an irrational act in response to another irrational act usually spelled tragedy.
“A couple of days, Cork, that’s all.”
In the dark inside the Civic, he stared into her eyes.
“Trust me,” she said.
Her cell phone chirped. She looked at the display. “It’s coming from the duplex.” She answered. “Yeah?” A few seconds and she said, “Thanks,” and broke the connection. “Shit.”
“What?”
“The Malibu’s on the move.”
Behind them, a car screamed into the alley. Its headlights blasted over them. Dina jammed the Civic into gear and shot off with a squeal. The car was far more powerful than it looked, and Cork figured she had customized the engine, added muscle. She hit the street at the other end, took a hard right. Cork looked back as the black Malibu fishtailed into sight. Dina cut up side streets and blazed down alleyways. She worked gradually east, putting distance between them and the car in pursuit. Finally she skidded to a stop in a driveway behind a high hedge. She killed the engine and the headlights. They sat a moment and the Malibu shot past, roaring into the dark at the far end of the street.
“You need to disappear and you need to do it now,” she said.
“Where?”
“Pick a direction and go. Do you have any money?”
“Not much.”
“Here.” She reached under the dash and something clicked. A small compartment popped open next to the glove box. She reached in and pulled out a stack of bills. “There’s twelve hundred. I keep it for emergencies. Take it. And take this, too.” She reached down, pulled up the cuff of her pants, removed her .32 Beretta from the ankle holster, and handed it to Cork.
“I can’t even say good-bye to my family?”
“The choice is yours, but I think it’s risky. Obviously the guys in the Malibu weren’t alone. Somebody tipped them off that you were in the alley. No telling how many people are on you or where they are. I’ll let Jo know what’s going on.”
He gave a nod and they were both quiet.
Dina sat back with a tired sigh. “Lou, Eddie, Phillip, Gabriella, Tony. My God, what you must think of us Jews.”
“It’s got nothing to do with religion or culture. It’s just a screwed-up family. You find those everywhere. Irish Catholics, Ojibwe—hell, probably even among the Bushmen of the Kalahari.”
At the end of the block, the black Malibu crept into view like a panther stalking its prey.
“I’ll lead them on a merry chase,” Dina said. “You make yourself scarce.”
“Once again you come to my rescue.”
“I’m a sucker for a pretty face. Get going.”
He opened the door, slid out.
“You have my number. Let me know where you end up. Good luck, Cork.”
Dina backed from the drive and turned on the headlights. As soon as the Malibu squealed in her direction, she shot off. Cork hunkered in the dark of the hedge while the Malibu sped past. He waited until the sound of the two engines had faded into the distance before he walked to the street.
Dawn seemed far away. At that moment, everything did.
A
SOLITARY TWO-LANE
highway splits the marsh. To the right and left, brittle reeds disappear into a dingy, low-hanging mist. A fragile light falls over the scene, the day almost breaking. The marsh is silent. The birds have fled south or been killed by the virus, or perhaps it’s something about the place itself that inhibits their song, for there is the feel of abandonment here, of death, like an old battlefield or a cemetery.
Far to the west rises the dark square of a barn wall and the slope of a roof. It seems like an ark floating on a dun-colored sea. East there is nothing but the empty slate sky and the reluctant dawn
.
He walks in his windbreaker with his shoulders hunched, each breath of cold air a reminder that autumn is making its last stand. He knows what will follow is a killing season
.
He hears the rattle long before the mist around him begins to glow from the headlights, and then the truck passes, an old pickup, the bed fitted with rickety slat-board sides. Thirty yards beyond him the brake lights flash. The truck slows, stops. As he approaches, he sees that the bed is filled with feed sacks stacked half a dozen high in neat rows, and a contraption of wood and metal with gears and a long handle whose purpose is unknown to him. He opens the door. The smell of manure greets him
.
“Hop in.” The man at the wheel beckons. He’s in overalls and his boots are caked. “Where you going?”
“North,” he says as he climbs in and slams the door.
“Whereabouts?”
“Just north.”
“Big place, that.” The man grins in a friendly way and gears into the mist.
In a moment, the truck is lost, heading north, which is indeed a big place, but not big enough.