The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10)

The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10) Page 70

“We could take the pontoon out on the lake—”

The noise of heavy footsteps on the steps of the deck outside cut her short. I stepped away from the door. A few moments later Skarda walked in.

“Hi, Dave,” Josie said. She was standing next to the coffeemaker. She was now wearing her shirt; the towel was still wrapped around her hips. “Do you want some coffee?”

“No.”

“Dyson made it.”

“Maybe a half a cup, then.”

I was standing in front of Jimmy’s map. “What brings you here?” I asked.

“I had nowhere else to go,” Skarda said.

“Liz?”

“Liz wonders what’s going to happen afterward. She wonders—I’m an escaped fugitive and she wonders what’s going to happen to us.”

You’re going to prison, I told myself. As soon as the ATF gets the guns off the border every law enforcement agency in the region is going to swoop down on you and the other bandits—and there’s nothing I can do about it. The thought made me feel low. I turned my attention back to the map so I wouldn’t have to look at him or his sister.

“One problem at a time,” I said.

“I could go to Canada with you,” Skarda said.

“No,” Josie said. She moved to the living room and handed Skarda his cup of coffee. “You can go to Canada, but not with him. Isn’t that right, Dyson? You told me yourself, you’re here for the money, and once you get it, you’re out the door and down the street and you won’t be coming back.”

“Something like that,” I said.

“And you prefer not to leave any misunderstandings behind.”

“None.”

Josie lifted both of her hands the way some people do when they’re about to ask a question and then let them fall to her sides. “I need to get dressed,” she said. A moment later she disappeared into the bedroom.

“What’s with her?” Skarda asked.

“She’s wondering what’s going to happen the day after, too.”

“What is going to happen?”

I wanted to tell him; wanted to tell them both. Sit them down on the deck and explain who I was and what I was doing there—screw Bullert, screw Finnegan, screw the ATF, the FBI, and all the rest. I had come there because I thought I might be able to do some good and because I thought it might be fun.

What do you think about the idea now? my inner voice asked.

I ignored Skarda’s question as well as my own and turned my attention back to the map.

After that, it was the three of us hanging around doing nothing. I decided it was a good idea to let them see me preparing my plans for the heist, so I retrieved the camera I had used the day before. I plugged it into the PC that Jimmy had left at the cabin and started surfing the photos I had taken at the remote vault. I studied the white building from all angles, the fence, the trail, the creek, everything. The more I did, the more sure I was that I could actually rob the place. The thought excited me even as my inner voice chanted, Don’t be an ass. I dismissed it—as I often had before doing something stupid—and started carefully jotting down all of the license plate numbers of the vehicles I had photographed. Josie wanted to know why. “Looking for a key,” I told her. When I finished, I came thisclose to pulling out my cell and calling Chad Bullert before catching myself.

“I need a phone,” I said. Josie gave me hers. I stopped myself again.

Okay, now what? my inner voice asked. You can’t call Bullert directly. What if Josie or one of the other bandits traced the phone number? It was an easy thing to do these days with the Internet.

What else can I do, I asked myself. We had not worked this out in advance, setting up a go-between to whom I could clandestinely pass information. ’Course, I had expected to be home long before now. I’m sure Bullert expected the same. I could have gone for a hike alone in the woods or taken the pontoon out on the lake, made my calls where there was no one to hear. I was afraid of how Josie and Skarda might react, though. I had no fear that they would guess I was a police spy, but rather that they would imagine I was betraying them to Brand or the deputies or both.

I decided I had to use the cell in front of them. The problem—whom could I call? Several people came to mind, only I couldn’t remember any of their phone numbers. They had all been listed alphabetically by first name on the contact log of my cell phone; I would just click on them. I had memorized only one phone number in my entire life—a number I had called perhaps a dozen times a week since I was in kindergarten.

I inputted it on the keypad of Josie’s cell. A few moments later a woman answered. “Hello,” she said. I paused so long that she said “Hello” again before I replied.

“Hey, sweetie,” I said. “It’s good to hear your voice. This is Nick Dyson.”

“Who?”

“I’m sorry it’s been so long since I’ve been in touch. How’s your mom?”