The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10)

The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10) Page 3

“Hey, hey, hey—use your indoor voice.”

“What about me?” Skarda asked.

“What about you?”

“Take me with you.”

“The plan is for one.”

“Then, then you can, you can just let me go.”

I shook my head slowly. “The cops’ll pick you up in about ten minutes, and then you’ll be screwed even worse than you are now. Isn’t that right, Deputy?”

“That’s right,” he said.

“Believe it or not, I’m doing you a favor,” I said.

“I’ll pay you,” Skarda said.

“Pay me what?”

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

That made me turn in my seat. I stared at him briefly through the steel mesh before returning my eyes to the road.

“Where would a punk like you get fifty thousand dollars?”

“That’s my business,” he said.

“Fifty thousand dollars.” I said it as if the number impressed me. “Who are you?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

“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.”