The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10)

The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10) Page 4

“You two are totally fucked,” the deputy said.

“I believe the basic code for that is ten-forty-five-F.”

Less than an hour later we crossed Interstate 35, still heading east.

“My friends are up north,” Skarda said.

“Mine aren’t,” I replied.

Deputy Olson didn’t say anything. He simply sat in the back of the Charger and made angry breathing sounds.

We ended up on County Road 30 and followed it toward the Wisconsin border. Near the tiny town of Duxbury it turned from pavement to gravel; a giant plume of yellow and orange dust followed us down the road. This was no-man’s-land, thinly populated, little traffic.

The radio crackled, its signal not nearly as vibrant as it had been.

“Six-twenty-one.”

I ignored it.

“Six-twenty-one, do you copy?”

“Aren’t you going to answer?” Skarda asked.

“Nope. Let ’em wonder.”

The turnoff came up so fast that I was fifty feet past it before I could stop safely. I put the Charger in reverse, backed up, and then turned in. It was a logging road used so long ago that now it was little more than an overgrown trail with plenty of potholes that made the Charger bounce like a carnival ride. I followed it deep into the forest until we reached the edge of a small river—it might have been the Lower Tamarack; I didn’t know for sure and never cared to ask.

“Six-twenty—”

When I turned off the engine, the radio went with it.

Trees—poplar, birch, and fir—surrounded us. The only noise came from the wind in the branches and the low gurgle of the slow-moving water. The sun was high in the sky, and there were few shadows on the forest floor. It was the kind of place where a guy might pitch a tent and try his luck with a fly rod, where most people dream of escaping to and Minnesotans generally take for granted.

“Gentlemen, this is where I leave you,” I said.

“Here,” the deputy said. “Here?”

“Your guys aren’t going to be looking for me. They’re going to be looking for you. First things first, right? It’s going to take a long time to find you here, GPS or not. By the time they do and turn their attention to me, I’ll be out of the country.”

“Yeah? The average speed of a man hiking over unbroken ground is two miles per hour. How far do you think you’ll get on foot?”

“All the way to where a car is waiting. Do you think I’m making this up as I go along, Deputy? C’mon.”

“Dyson, you can’t leave us here.”

“Us?” Skarda said.

“You’ll be all right until help arrives,” I told them. “There hasn’t been a bear attack around here in, I don’t know, weeks.”

“Us?” Skarda repeated. “You’re taking me with you, right?”

“About that…”

“You promised.”

“No, I didn’t. Good luck to you, pal.”

“Wait, wait, Dyson. What about the fifty thousand dollars? What about Plan B?”

“Yeah…”

“You can’t leave me here. I helped you before. I helped you, remember? Remember? Forget the armed robbery. Even if I beat that rap, they’ll send me to Stillwater for whatchacallit, aiding and abetting your escape. Right? Right?”

“How about that, Deputy?”

Olson’s eyes were like roadside caution lights flashing SEVERE ACCIDENT AHEAD. “I look forward to testifying at your trial,” he said.

“You owe me,” Skarda said.

“Actually, you’re going to owe me,” I said.

I opened the back door and helped Skarda out. He was smiling when I unlocked his cuffs. The smile went away when I relocked them with his hands in front of him.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Fifty thousand dollars,” I said. “The cuffs come off when I get the money.”

“This’ll make it hard to walk.”

“Yes, it will.” I shoved him more or less toward the northwest. “That way.” While Skarda stumbled forward, I turned toward the deputy. “It’s been a pleasure,” I said. “Sorry I couldn’t stay.”

I locked him inside the patrol car and made a production out of dropping his car keys just outside the door where he could see them.

“Damn you, Dyson,” he shouted. I turned and walked into the woods. “Goddamn you.”

So far so good, my inner voice said.

I’m a city boy at heart. I can’t imagine living anywhere that doesn’t have a professional baseball team, jazz clubs, and a wide assortment of Asian, Mexican, Greek, and Italian restaurants. Still, there were times when the city boy loved to visit the Great Outdoors, fish in pristine lakes, hunt unclaimed forests, or just hike the countryside in search of wildlife you can’t see close to home, especially birds. I love the sight and sound of birds. I have a clock at home that announces each hour with the warble of a different avis. Trust me when I say it’s not the same as hearing them in the wild.