The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10)

The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10) Page 88

There was much I wanted to tell her; even more that I wanted to ask. I didn’t get the chance. As I led Rooney into the living room I heard movement in the kitchen—Daniel must have waved Roy and Jimmy into the driveway instead of crossing over to the Cherokee as I had hoped. I quickly became Nick Dyson again.

“I won’t tell you not to worry, Ms. Rooney,” I said. “There’s plenty to worry about. Do what I tell you when I tell you and you’ll be all right. You’ll be back with your children in no time. Do you understand?”

Rooney settled into a stuffed chair and held her face in her hand.

“I understand,” she said.

Time moves slowly when you’re not having fun. Jimmy and Roy spent most of it arguing. Twice I was forced to intervene. Daniel sat quietly until an idea crept into his head that prompted him to explore the other rooms. When he returned, he stood in front of Rooney’s chair and looked down at her.

“There aren’t any personal possessions in the house, Ms. Rooney.” he said. “Are you sure you live here?”

“I live with my mother,” Rooney answered. “Me and my girls. I’ve been trying to sell the house since my divorce, only I can’t get any takers. I would have moved my furniture out, but the real estate agent says it’s easier to sell the house if it’s furnished, if it looks like someone lives there. I only come around to make sure it’s okay or when I’m—”

“When you’re what?”

“Entertaining.”

“You’re not here every day, then?”

“No.”

Daniel believed her. Hell, I believed her and I knew better. Daniel shook his head at me.

“You’re so lucky,” he said.

I quoted Branch Rickey, the baseball man who gave Jackie Robinson his chance: “Luck is the residue of design and desire.”

“Yeah, right.”

5:30 P.M. by Skarda’s watch. “It’s time,” I said. I gestured at Rooney to stand, gave her an index card on which I wrote specific instructions, and told her to read it aloud. I made her do it three times. Afterward, I had her retrieve her cell phone and key the loudspeaker.

“Now call your boss,” I said.

He answered in the middle of the fourth ring.

“Jer, this is Carolyn Rooney…”

“Hi, Carrie.”

“Hi. I’m having trouble with my car…”

“What kind of trouble?”

Rooney was looking into my eyes when she said, “I have no idea.”

“Do you need a ride?”

“No, Jer. I have a friend who’s going to loan me his car. I’m going to be late, though—might not arrive until after seven. I’ll try to get there sooner…”

“That’s okay, Carrie. Don’t worry about it. Describe the car and I’ll pass it along to security.”

“It’s a Jeep Cherokee.” Rooney read the color and license plate number directly from the card.

“Okay,” Jer said. “We’ll see you when we see you.”

Rooney deactivated her cell. “Now what?” she asked.

6:11 P.M. and the cell phone I had borrowed from Jimmy was pressed against my ear. The Cherokee was parked on a side street just outside of Tower, Rooney behind the wheel. I was scrunched down on the passenger-side floor. I was wearing the black mask, black gloves, and Kevlar vest and cradling an AK-47 and was uncomfortable as hell. Daniel and Roy were on the floor of the backseat and fared no better. Jimmy, lying in the cargo area, probably had the worst of it, but then he was also holding a bomb.

“Hey,” Jimmy said. I told him he didn’t need to whisper. He kept doing it anyway. “How much longer?” I didn’t answer. “Hey?” At least he remembered not to use my name.

“Not long,” I said.

“You said that ten minutes ago.” When I didn’t respond he added, “We should have taken my car. It’s bigger.”

“Do you really want to leave your car at the scene of the crime?” I asked.

“Oh. Yeah.” A few more minutes passed, and Jimmy asked, “Is it going to take much longer?”

Rooney gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead, trying hard to keep her face blank, yet her eyes wondered where the hell I found these guys.

“Would someone please shoot the kid,” I said.

“If I could I would,” Roy told me. “I can’t even turn my head, much less point the rifle.”

“Dyson.” This time it was Dave Skarda speaking. He sounded excited over the cell phone.

“Talk to me,” I said.

“Truck A has arrived.”

“Good.”

“It’s way early. Do you want me to—”

“No. Just sit there and do what we talked about.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“You’re the boss.”

Since when? my inner voice asked.

After the exchange, Rooney shook her head and spoke in a frightened single-mother voice. “You are never going to get away with this,” she said.

“You are such a pessimist,” I told her. “How do you even make it through the day?”

6:37 P.M. and Skarda morphed from excited to panicky.

“The second truck,” he said over the cell. “Truck B. It stopped. It was turning into—and then it stopped. It’s parked on the side of the highway. What are we going to do?”