Authors: John Sandford
Bad Blood (21 page)
“I don’t want to fly in it,” Virgil said. “I’ll be on the ground. We’ll send along one of Lee’s deputies to watch one of the houses, maybe the Floods, or this Einstadt guy, see where the meeting is.”
“I sense an emotional resonance in the way you said ‘Lee,’ ” Davenport said. “I heard she’s a looker.”
“That’s correct,” Virgil said. “I plan to further explore those aspects of the case.”
“Yeah, yeah, I don’t want to hear it,” Davenport said. “Well, actually I do, but some other time.”
“Wouldn’t be good right now,” Virgil said.
“She’s sitting right next to you, right?”
Virgil nodded at his phone. “Yup.”
“You know, if the DNA comes through, we could just let the rest of it slide.”
“Lucas, there are girls in this church who are much younger than your daughter,” Virgil said.
“Ah, man,” Davenport said. “Where do you want the plane?”
THEY SETTLED THAT, and he got Davenport to switch him up to the DNA lab, where he talked to a tech. The lab was still processing the DNA from the hair taken from Spooner’s couch, but, the tech said, she’d have something to tell Virgil by noon the next day.
Virgil got off and said to Coakley, “Noon tomorrow. I do believe we’ll have Miz Spooner in jail by two o’clock.”
“That could crack it,” Coakley said. She patted him on the thigh again.
12
L
oewe watched the two cops go out to their truck and pull away, and he stepped away from the window and grabbed the roll of window plastic and began unrolling it, quickly, then frantically, his hands shaking. He cut a sheet and carried it to a window and began trying to tape it up, but he was so frantic now, shaking so badly, that he finally let it crumple to the floor, and dropped into his only easy chair and covered his face with his hands.
oewe watched the two cops go out to their truck and pull away, and he stepped away from the window and grabbed the roll of window plastic and began unrolling it, quickly, then frantically, his hands shaking. He cut a sheet and carried it to a window and began trying to tape it up, but he was so frantic now, shaking so badly, that he finally let it crumple to the floor, and dropped into his only easy chair and covered his face with his hands.
He should have left. He should have left right after Kelly was killed, should have gotten everything together and gone out to San Francisco. He was a good carpenter, had taken cabinetry classes, knew enough electric and plumbing to get along. He’d been told he could make a fortune out in San Francisco. He could find jobs in the underground economy, paid with cash, and live quietly and invisibly and mostly legally, until he found out how everything shook out.
Now, they were looking right at him. He had nothing to do with Kelly Baker, but he
knew
about it, and that was enough. That was their message. They were floating a deal, but if the church were blown up, no deal would stick. Not for him. He’d been a boy in the church, used by older men, and then he got to be a man, and had used the younger boys as he had been used . . . and nobody in the World of Law would forgive that.
knew
about it, and that was enough. That was their message. They were floating a deal, but if the church were blown up, no deal would stick. Not for him. He’d been a boy in the church, used by older men, and then he got to be a man, and had used the younger boys as he had been used . . . and nobody in the World of Law would forgive that.
He had more than thirteen hundred dollars in the bank, and a good paid-off F250, only six years old. He could still run to San Francisco, sell the truck, move down to a little-used Tacoma, license it in a fake company name, put together a Mexican crew from the Wal-Mart slave markets, live underground. . . .
He put the first knuckle of his right fist into his mouth and bit until it hurt. What to do?
Twenty minutes after the cops left, he’d cooled down, and he called Emmett Einstadt. “I need to see you. The sooner the better. I think . . . at the Blue Earth rest stop.”
“Blue Earth? What are you talking about, Harvey?”
“Because we need to see who comes in after us. That’s why. I need to talk to you, and we need to see who comes in after us. Be there. One hour from now, exactly. Don’t get there one minute early, or one minute late. If you aren’t there, you won’t be seeing me again. Ever.”
There was a long silence as Einstadt took that in. He started, “Harvey—”
“I’m not fooling around here, Emmett, and I’m not going to talk about it on any phone or cell phone or any other way, or in any building,” Loewe said, and the panic was bleeding into the phone. “You be there.”
Loewe hung up and watched the phone: when it didn’t ring, he figured Einstadt would be there.
AND HE WAS.
He followed Einstadt’s Silverado into the highway rest stop, parked next to him. The Silverado had a crew cab, and he climbed out of his Ford and into the back of the Chevy. Einstadt turned half-sideways in the driver’s seat to take him in. “What in the heck was so blamed urgent—”
“The cops came this morning. The sheriff and the state guy, whatever his name is. Flowers. They’ve hooked up Jake Flood and Kelly Baker, they’ve got information coming from someplace, I don’t know where. But they
know
, Emmett, or they’re about to find out. They were hinting around that I could deal with them. . . .”
know
, Emmett, or they’re about to find out. They were hinting around that I could deal with them. . . .”
“What’d you say?”
“I said I didn’t know what the heck they were talking about. What did you want me to say? That I fucked Jacky Shoen last week?”
“Watch your language, Harvey,” Einstadt said. “You’re talking to the Senior.”
“I’ll tell you what, Senior, if they crack the church, you’re going to spend your senior days in the state penitentiary. The only lucky thing for you is, you’re too old to last long. They told me: thirty years. Thirty years for
knowing
about Kelly. You think somebody won’t crack, looking at thirty years?”
knowing
about Kelly. You think somebody won’t crack, looking at thirty years?”
“What else?”
Loewe had the old man’s attention now: his green eyes were half-shut, focused.
“Oh, heck, they wanted to know if I’d had a relationship with Bob Tripp, they wanted to know about my relationship with Kelly Baker. They wanted to know if she had a sexual relationship with Jake—they’re that far down the road, Emmett. They asked about Birdy Olms—”
“What about Birdy?”
“I don’t know. They asked where she went. I said I didn’t know . . . ’cause I don’t.”
Einstadt was peering at him.
Loewe asked, “Do you know?”
Einstadt turned away, then said, almost pensively, into the windshield, “Flowers was down at the Main Street, asked about Liberty.”
Loewe bobbed his head and said, “Well, there you go, Emmett. There’s only one way to know about Liberty—somebody told him.”
“All right,” Einstadt said. “I’m going to talk to some of the others. We’ll figure this out. You sit tight—you don’t know anything about anything. We’ll ride it out. We had a problem like this thirty years back, rode it out.”
“Emmett—”
His voice harsh, a prophet’s voice, Einstadt said, “Keep down, keep your mouth shut. Like you said, if you talk about anything, you’re gone. It’s not only Jacky Shoen you fucked. If the whole thing comes out, there won’t be no deal strong enough for you.”
They looked at each other for a minute, then Loewe said, his voice calmer, “I believe you can take care of it, Emmett. That’s why I called. But you need to know how serious this is. I’m going home. I’ll keep my mouth shut. I’ll even pray. But you gotta do something.”
Einstadt nodded and said, “Take off.”
LOEWE GOT OUT of the Silverado, back into his Ford. Watched, slumped in his seat, as Einstadt wheeled out.
Thought,
San Francisco.
San Francisco.
His folks didn’t need him, with the crops in for the year. His old man could handle the winter work on his own.
Loewe looked at his watch: he could go home, load up, and be in Omaha by dark. Thought about it a little more. Maybe not, he thought. If something happened, they could put out an alert to the highway patrols between here and there, and pick him up.
He needed to sell the truck in Minnesota. Up in the Cities. List it on the Internet, Craigslist, with a low enough price, and it’d be gone in a day. Get a bank draft for it, put it in the bank, then yank the money out in cash. Take off. Three days. That way, if something broke, they couldn’t track him across the country. . . .
EINSTADT PULLED OUT of the rest stop thinking about
those damn women.
He didn’t worry about Liberty, because Liberty was dead, and there wasn’t anything anybody could do about that, including the World of Law. He didn’t worry much—maybe a little—about Loewe, because Loewe had a taste for the boys, and he was right: if the World of Law found out about it, they’d call him a predator and put him in jail forever. So he
would
keep his mouth shut.
those damn women.
He didn’t worry about Liberty, because Liberty was dead, and there wasn’t anything anybody could do about that, including the World of Law. He didn’t worry much—maybe a little—about Loewe, because Loewe had a taste for the boys, and he was right: if the World of Law found out about it, they’d call him a predator and put him in jail forever. So he
would
keep his mouth shut.
But those damn women: Kathleen Spooner and Birdy Olms. Spooner had gone and shot Crocker and should never have done that. Never. Crocker was a cop, and the other cops would never let go, now that they knew he’d been murdered.
And Flowers, blabbing all over the place, had hinted that there was some DNA involved. DNA was the latest curse from the World of Law. If they had DNA on her, they could use her as a wedge to open up everything.
Then there was Birdy. Birdy wouldn’t listen to anybody about anything. Even after her initiation, she’d continued to fight them. Finally, she’d run away. In some ways, it was a relief; in other ways, a threat. She was still out there, somewhere. They’d never heard a peep from her, but she’d cleaned out her husband’s cash and tax account before she left, and had enough cash to hide pretty thoroughly.
Now, maybe, they should take another stab at finding her.
First, something had to be done about Spooner. He thought about that for a long time, to the first exit, across the bridge, back onto I-90, and finally called his oldest son, Leonard, and told him they needed to meet. “Tell Junior to be there. . . . We’ve got a problem.”
LEONARD AND JUNIOR were hard men in their forties, both farmers, dark hair, dark eyes, perpetual five o’clock shadows across the saturnine faces they’d inherited from their mother. They met at Emmett Einstadt’s house on the hill, climbing up the driveway past the line of bare apple trees, Concord grape arbors, and snow-covered garden flats.
Einstadt told them what he thought: that as desperate an act as it was, Spooner had to be eliminated. They listened wordlessly, then Leonard looked at Emmett, and at Junior, and asked, “What do you think?”
“Makes me sour just thinking about it, but Father’s right,” Junior said. “If they’re really testing for her DNA, I don’t know how long that takes, but it can’t be too long. So we’ll have to do it soon.”
All three of them had grown and butchered animals, so death was not an abstract concept to them. They could do it; the question was, How?
Einstadt said, “She’s always liked you, Leonard. You could send Mary and the kids on the way, tonight, get her there after they’re gone. Get it done, take her over to Junior’s, get her in the ground. Out in the woodlot, we’ve been in there working. It’s supposed to snow again tomorrow night. Once it snows—”
“Give me the creeps, knowing she’s there,” Junior said.
“You can live with it,” his father said, and Junior nodded.
“What about her car?” Leonard asked.
“Put it in Junior’s barn, stack hay around it. Soon as we’ve got a little space, the two of you put it on a trailer, drive it to Detroit, leave it in the street with the keys inside, drive back.”
“That’s a risk,” Leonard said.
“We’ve got to take some risks,” Einstadt said. “If Kathleen hadn’t killed Crocker . . .”
“But she’s right about Crocker. He might’ve talked.”
“If she’d come and talked to us, we could have handled that. She didn’t, and so now she’s got to pay,” Einstadt said.
“We all ought to sell out, go up to Alberta and start another colony up there,” Junior said.
“Maybe someday,” Einstadt said, “but we can’t right now. Right now, we’ve got to do something about Katheen. And I’ve been thinking: here’s how we do it, keeping in mind that gun of hers.”
THEY WORKED IT OUT in detail, right down to the rope they’d use, and then Leonard went to his home phone to call her, with the other two listening in on handsets in the living room and the upstairs bedroom. They called on her cell phone, and she answered on the second ring.
Leonard said, “We need to talk, seriously, Kathleen. The police are looking for Birdy. We know where she is—she’s down in Dallas—and somebody’s got to go down there and . . . settle her. We thought of you.”
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