by Tim Garvin
The joy swirled, making confidence. Cody was knee to knee with menace and unafraid. He was immune. Also, computers were his province. Elton was gazing at a height he could not see. Cody was looking down and unafraid to know it.
Cody said, “I sent ten emails, as I said I would. I used tor so there is no record of that communication on this computer. I did not save it in a Word document for the feds to find.” He had sent no emails. He would see Keisha on the way to Richmond. He would say, remember this kiss of love. His gaze wandered across Elton’s face, held on the eyes for a second, then rested mild and indifferent on the wide, thin mouth.
After a moment, Elton said, “Tell me what the email said.”
“It said I have come into possession of an fim-92 Stinger launch system with three missiles due to the recent crash of two Super Stallion helicopters in North Carolina, as reported on CNN. I want ten million dollars.”
“Did you say you will send a missile as proof?”
“I decided it’s better to let that come up.”
“Show me a website.”
Cody had anticipated. He had searched jihadi websites, seen people kneeling in orange coveralls, seen a cage of people being lowered into a river. If you clicked, a video would start. He had searched, stepping carefully around the videos, until he found a likely page.
He opened the tor browser and typed. He swung the computer around to face Elton. The screen showed a Toyota Hilux pickup with a rear-bed machine gun, parked on a desert road and surrounded by young olive-skinned guys with beards and AK-47s. They were grinning. There was lots of Arabic script. Cody leaned over the screen and pointed. He said, “Hit ‘translate’ right here. The email button comes up in the upper right.”
Elton closed the laptop. He said, “So it’s trust Cody.”
Cody said, “Trust him to want five million dollars.”
“You were sorrowing about Harvey a minute ago.”
“Harvey’s dead. I’m not.”
Elton placed the laptop on Cody’s knees and stood. He touched the Ka-Bar at his belt. He said, “I saw you looking at this knife. I don’t care if your mind works. My mind works too. I almost went to see your dad.”
“Why?”
“A Texas Hold’em tournament is coming up. National. I thought maybe old Squint could stake me. As the price for not telling the feds his son’s got their missiles.”
“He’d tell you to go fuck yourself.”
“Maybe. Anyway, I started thinking—this terrorist bullshit is too fucking complicated. But who else might want a Stinger missile? The cartels is who. And I do business with them. This man right here gets face-to-face with them. And they got rooms of money. So we got a new plan. We’re going to get the missiles tonight. We’re going to test out your umbrella contraption.”
“I’m not going back there now.”
“Yeah, you are, because if you don’t I pick up a phone. Carl here is going with you, only he’s going to be in a different boat, just in case.”
“In case I get busted.”
“That is correct. So best your contraption does the trick. I’m going for the boat, and Carl here will keep you company. He’s got a headache, so don’t upset him.” Elton removed the Ka-Bar from his belt, grasped the hilt, and tossed the knife to Peener, who caught the handle one-handed. He said, “Let’s go back up to the trailer, Cody. You and Carl can watch TV while I get the boat.”
Cody sat.
Elton said, “It’s what’s happening, Cody. Stand up.”
Peener, with the knife, started toward him.
“Hey, fellows. How’s everybody?”
It was Seb Creek, who had stepped onto the garage concrete from the gravel driveway.
The Man on a Raft
Seb drove fast out of Swanntown. His database search for Cody Cooper had come up, and there it was, a conviction and fine for misdemeanor Venus flytrap theft. Which the FBI would already have. As he drove, he searched for flytrap violations in the last ten years. Several pages of names, two hundred maybe. They would distribute the list by email, ten agents, maybe twenty.
His phone rang.
“This is Seb.”
“Hey, Seb. Curtis Kelkar. Got a minute?”
Kelkar was a narcotics detective and one of Seb’s teammates on the sheriff’s department basketball team. Seb said, “A quick minute. I got a meeting.”
“Okay, quick. Carl Peener is out of jail, bailed out by Elton Gleen.”
“Elton is his uncle. What’d it cost him?”
“Ten grand.”
“I bet that made for some discussion.”
“You got time for a few facts?”
“Go ahead.”
“We’re coordinating with Atlanta narcotics. Peener and his gang—he’s got a little start-up motorcycle gang—they’re auditioning for the Bandidos. The Bandidos have been looking at Atlanta, and Peener wants to be their guy. So far, they just been stealing bikes, cooking meth, the whole biker deal. Now it appears—this is what we think and what Atlanta thinks—they’re connected to a Juarez cartel, which is no doubt Elton’s connection, and that’s what Peener was doing here, making his uncle’s black tar heroin runs. Peener was up in Maryland too, which probably means MS-13.”
“Starting a life.”
“And they’re not stupid. They rent a van, and Atlanta says they have four or five magnetic signs they stick on—drywall, computers, various ones.”
“Any residue in the van?”
“No residue. Anyway, that’s a heads-up. I saw the pics of Peener. Looks like you won the fight. What did you do, hit him with the whole damn door?”
Seb pulled up to the top of Charlene’s entrance drive and stopped. Down the hill at the bottom, he could see Elton Gleen’s roll-bar pickup. He got out, eased the car door closed. He removed his nine millimeter, jacked a shell into the chamber, and set the safety. As he came around the corner of the garage, he heard Elton’s thin voice: It’s what’s happening, Cody. Stand up.
He said, “Hey, fellows. How’s everybody?”
Elton turned. Cody remained seated. Peener held a knife.
Elton said, “Well, it’s Seb Creek.”
Seb said, “Mr. Peener, I see you holding that knife. I want you to put it down.” He held open his coat. “I got my gun this time.”
Peener smiled. He tossed the knife from hand to hand. “Is it a law a man can’t hold a knife?”
Seb said, “I feel unsafe.” He put his hand over the butt of the nine millimeter.
“Shit, son. Don’t be scared.” Peener crossed to the boat and clapped the knife on the hull, making a loud ting. He said, “How’s that?”
Seb said, “Now move to the side, all the way to the side. Elton, you back up there with him.”
Elton and Peener arranged themselves beside Cody, who was still sitting. Elton said, “You’re ordering free citizens around, Seb. We’re all witnessing this.”
Seb crossed to the boat and hefted the knife. He walked to the rear of the garage and placed the knife on a shelf. As he turned, he saw the orange tent crumpled between two cardboard boxes. He turned to the three men. “Looks like they got you patched up, Carl. I heard you filed a complaint.”
“I damn sure did. I’m suing you too.”
“You wouldn’t take a potshot at me, would you?”
Peener smiled. “Well, I’m not fixing to warn you.”
“I’m worried you might think it’s a good way to impress the Bandidos.”
“Now that I think about it …”
“Well, Carl, that’s a wrong path. Now then, what’s this meeting about?”
Elton said, “That’s not something you get to ask.”
Seb said, “How about you boys go on now. I got to have a private conference with Cody.”
Elton said, “You’re interrupting a private confe
rence.”
Seb said to Cody, “Cody, either they leave or let’s go downtown.”
Cody said, “They were just leaving. Go downtown for what?”
Seb said, “You heard that, Elton? A property owner has asked you to leave his premises.”
Elton said, “Cody, are you asking us to leave the premises?”
Cody said, “I guess.”
Seb said, “Be clear, Cody.”
Cody said, “Yes, I am.”
Seb said, “Off you go.”
Peener and Elton crossed the garage. Elton said, “Cody, we’ll see you after while.”
Seb sat across from Cody. They listened to the pickup’s engine start, then heard the gravel grind as it backed up the drive. Seb ran his hands through his hair, re-rubber-banding his ponytail with a concentrated expression. He said, “Those two guys sell drugs, Cody. But trust me, neither one has much career left. Even if you planted the islands again, I doubt they’ll be around to pay you.”
Cody started, “I’m not …” then stopped as Seb raised a hand.
Seb said, “Good. Smart. By the way, I forgot to tell you, I spoke to your dad last night. What he said was, he will quit the group if you come and sing.”
Cody said, “I’m not going to fucking join your singers, for Christ’s sake.”
“Oh, well,” said Seb and waved a hand. He rolled his shoulders back, stretching his chest. He said, “I see you’re fixing to paint the skiff.”
Cody stared. It wasn’t about the singers. What then? He felt himself coiling, looking for chances.
“Thing is, Cody, here’s my serious reason for being here. I dropped by to let you know that your alibi for noon day before yesterday did not pan out.” Seb made his face solemn but sympathetic. He said, “Not a one at McDonald’s could recognize you.” He fished his phone from his front pocket, woke it, and showed the screen, a head and shoulders shot of Cody in the hot tub. Seb had not been to McDonald’s.
“Not a one, Cody. So here I am again. This is not about singing. This is about did Cody Cooper rob and murder Leo Sackler.”
“Give me a fucking break. Some counter guy at McDonald’s is supposed to recognize me from a thousand different people?”
“Not a thousand. Several hundred. Police statistics show that recognition is common in similar circumstances. So that’s strike one, Cody. I came to tell you that if you killed Leo Sackler over some sort of dispute, and he was trying to hurt you, or if it was an accident, which it seemed like, then speak up now.”
“I don’t know a thing about Leo Sackler. Or who the fuck he is.”
Seb glanced over Cody’s shoulder. He said, “Whoever keeps this garage keeps it neat. When I was a kid, my dad had his garage, and it looked like a grenade had gone off in it. I believe you had a grenade—no, it was an IED, wasn’t it. Did I ever tell you I was in Iraq at that time? I was in Anbar, but we heard about it. One guy killed, another guy trapped until they cut him loose. Now here we are, two old Marines, facing off in normal life over a murder.”
“I don’t know a fucking thing about a murder.”
“Well, maybe not.” Seb stood and walked to the rear of the garage. He lifted the sodden orange tent and dropped it on one of the cardboard boxes. “I’m thinking your dad gave you this tent. It’s wet too. Which is why no one at McDonald’s recognized you, because you were not there. You were out in that storm. Which is why you got this boat up out of the water. Away from prying eyes.”
Cody was looking over his shoulder. Now he turned away and held himself perfectly still. The Ka-Bar knife lay on the shelf ten feet away. It brightened in his mind. He tried to breathe.
Seb sat again. He placed his hands on his knees, hunched slightly forward. He said, “I wonder if you were out stealing Venus flytraps on the base when that storm hit. That makes sense, with this wet tent crammed in here. And also because I got a video. Look here.” He thumb-searched his phone again, then started the video, holding the phone in front of Cody’s face. Cody watched deadpan as the camera moved over the orange tent and blackened campfire. Seb slid the phone into his front pocket. He said, “That tent stands out, doesn’t it. There was a guy they caught flytrapping over on the Orton Plantation last week, and they gave him a million-dollar bond. You hear about that? And you been arrested before for flytrapping. Right now, with this video, I bet I could appear before a magistrate and come away with a warrant to search your trailer, and if I do, I believe I will find an illegal harvest of Venus flytraps. That’s a felony. And you’re back to prison.”
“You said you weren’t interested in flytraps.”
“I could call it in, stay here watching so you can’t hide them.”
There was a silence.
Cody said, “Go ahead.” But his voice had tired.
“I’m not going to do it. In a way, I admire the ambition of it. That’s got to be hard work, on your knees all day, digging. But then I think, no, Venus flytraps are one of the state’s treasures, and they shouldn’t go to benefit just one guy. Then I think, but here’s a fellow soldier, and do I want to put his fucked-up ass back in prison?” Seb gripped the air with both fists. “That war was a clusterfuck, Cody. We went there to be men and came back animals.” He replaced his hands on his knees. “I sometimes think if your life wasn’t ruined over there, you were an animal to begin with.”
Cody’s eyes moved around the garage as if he was following a fly. They flicked across Seb’s face, intelligent and watching.
Seb rose, stepped away from the chairs, and performed two jumping jacks. He said, “I do jumping jacks in the morning, and sometimes I’m like a cocked pistol and have to let off a few more.” He lifted the Mylar-draped umbrella from the rafters and twirled it over his head. The Mylar curtains fell in a neat circle, enclosing him. He tilted the umbrella, and his face appeared through a seam. He said, “This is neat. What is this?”
“That’s for a deer blind I’m working on.”
“Pretty cool.” Seb hung the umbrella back on the rafters. He sat again. He said, “Hate to say, but it’s all adding up. Let me ask you this, Cody—are you a fucking terrorist?”
“No.” Cody answered automatically, as if some invisible hand had pressed truth from him. Numbness came. Helplessness came.
Seb said, “That’s what I had to think about. Is this fool gone straight-up crazy? Because I can break a major case here, Cody, a national case. This goes all the way to the White House. My ticket to ride, man. And all I have to do is ruin Cody Cooper’s life. I had to do some deep thinking. Can you appreciate that?”
“I guess.”
“I don’t know what you were thinking. What I do know is we are in a serious predicament. Both of us. If they find you, and find out I didn’t arrest you, I’ll probably do time too. It’ll be bad for me, since you’re the brother of my old girlfriend. And you can’t run. The feds are involved, and they are heartless in the name of justice and the national good. They won’t know you from a bug. They found where you were digging the flytraps, and they’re looking up arrests. They’ll be here today sometime. So you go out there, and you get that stuff, and you leave it in plain sight. If they find it first, they’ll find you, either through DNA or a fingerprint. Because I doubt you wiped it the way you wiped the trailer, because you hid it. So get it, wipe it, and leave it. If they find it, you’re done. No help can come.”
Cody’s mouth opened. He was like a man on a raft who sees a ship and waits, tired of shouting.
Seb said, “I don’t want a confession. That would precipitate arrest.” He rose. He gestured at the umbrella. “This here’s an interesting idea, but I wouldn’t use it. You get caught with it, you can’t explain it. I don’t know if they’re using thermal scopes, but if they spot you, might be better to be a guy out fishing.”
Cody sat perfectly still, listening to the footsteps fade. He rose, moved to the front of the garage,
and saw Seb get into his car and drive away.
Then it was panic hurry. Elton and Peener would be parked somewhere, watching for Seb’s car. Cody seized the bowline of the skiff and jerked it forward, collapsing the sawhorses. The paint can hit the concrete of the garage floor, popped open, and hurled a bloom of blue across the floor and an artful splatter across the boat’s hull. He heaved the boat over, retrieved the motor and gas can from the rafters, and set them in with his laptop. Then he trot-lugged the boat across the lawn, blue-streaking the grass and leaving a wake of crushed pansies in a flower bed. He listened for a car, then ran to his trailer, found his phone, and ran back to the dock and kneed the boat into the creek, tied the bowline, set the engine on the transom, hooked up the fuel line. He listened for a car again, then ran back to the garage for his bicycle. He toted it to the boat yoke-style across his back and tumbled it into the bow.
What else? Money, for Christ’s sake. His wallet, for Christ’s sake. He ran to the trailer, found his wallet and keys and thrust them into his front pocket. Did he need keys? Fuck no. Fuck yes—for his bike lock, definitely, at Walmart, so he could definitely get back to the boat.
What else? Some fucking overlooked important absolute thing. But go go go! He pushed off. A rag. A fucking rag for fingerprints! Get that at Walmart, sweet great Walmart. He heard an engine, heard the slide of wheels on gravel.
He cast the bowline, hopped into the stern, and squeezed the gas bulb. The motor purred to life on the third pull. He nosed into the creek toward the inlet. His mind raced, his heart pounded, but the boat, an ordinary everyday scruffy-looking skiff, nudged slow across the calm water, just a white T-shirt guy out going somewhere, a guy with a bicycle in the bow, which was interesting but harmless, an ordinary guy doing some thing he was doing.
Behind him, he saw Elton and Peener come out on the dock and watch him.
The Dead Kid
Seb glided his Honda to a halt in front of the lodge. He saw Deputy Randall Garland emerge from his squad car and approach fast across the gravel lot. Seb gathered his flashlight from the center console, wondering idly whether the eager Randall would need to backstep as the door opened, as he had done two nights ago when the investigation began. When he turned, Randall was at the side, waiting. Seb cranked the door open and got out.