The Last Best Lie

by Kennedy Quinn

  I hurried after him and snatched my bag back. “Why not? I figure you’re the kind who thinks money is everything.”

  He whirled on me. “Jake is my friend. I would do anything for him. Do you hear me?”

  Okay, went one step too far again, I guess. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  He turned away and punched the call button, then stared straight ahead, tight-jawed. I ground my teeth. No matter what I said, he took it the wrong way. Fine, then. Let’s just get this done. The sooner I got away from this man, the better.

  Outside the hotel, a sterling-gray Mercedes waited for us. Our chauffeur, an older man with neatly trimmed gray hair peeking out from beneath his emerald cap, held open the back door. He blinked as Hunter brushed past me, angling into the car and pointedly claiming the whole seat. Snapping open a paper he’d picked up in the lobby, he said, “The help sits up front.”

  I clucked my tongue and headed for the other side of the car. “Whatever!”

  The driver shot Hunter a discreet but clearly disapproving look, then strode swiftly before me and opened the front passenger door.

  “Bonjour, monsieur. Comment sont vous, aujourd’hui?” I said, wishing him a good morning and hoping my high school French would be understandable and possibly even accurate. “Pardonnez, s’il vous plaît, mon pauvre accent. Je n’utilise pas votre jolie langue très souvent.”

  My sad, doubtless laughable, effort brought a smile in return. “Your accent is charming, Miss.” Nodding at Hunter, he whispered, “Parle-t-il le français?”

  I grinned, as much because I love the softened accents of Canadian French, as because of Hunter’s knack for offending people. The driver wanted to know if Hunter spoke French, and I guessed that if Hunter didn’t speak French, the driver would suddenly forget how to speak English. But the likelihood was that, being from New Orleans, Hunter would have picked up at least a little Cajun French, enough to get us both in trouble if we tried to talk around him. I made a sympathetic face. “Il comprend probablement un petit français. Il est de Nouvelle-Orléans.”

  The driver nodded fatalistically. As he took his seat, I handed him the address that Miss Livy had given me. “Would you take us here, please?”

  As we rolled out smoothly onto the roadway, I pulled out an apple I’d taken from the basket of fruit in the hotel lobby and bit in with gusto, glancing at Hunter in the rearview mirror. Without looking up from his paper, he said, “How long is this going to take?”

  Of course, he asked while I was in mid-bite. I swiped at the juice that dribbled on my chin. The driver handed me his handkerchief, which I used and returned with a smile, then hurriedly swallowed. “We’re heading toward Charlevoix, up the mouth of the St. Lawrence. Wait until you see it. It’s one of the most beautiful areas on Earth—majestic mountains, rolling vales, steep cliffs overlooking cold, sparkling waters—”

  “What are you, a freaking travel guide? I asked a simple question: how long?”

  “The address is between here and Charlevoix; I’d say about 80 kilometers.”

  Hunter glared at me over his paper.

  “That’s about fifty miles. Once we clear the city, we’ll make good time, although we have to veer off and take coastal roads near the address. Maybe an hour and a quarter?” I said, looking at the driver, who nodded his confirmation.

  Hunter grunted and went back to his reading. I settled into my seat, folded my arms over my chest and dropped my head back against the headrest, closing my eyes.

  The next thing I knew, I heard a hissing sound and a warm hand gently shook me. Groggily, I struggled into a sitting position. “What? Huh? What’s happening?”

  The driver, his hand on my arm, said, “Réveillez-vous, Mademoiselle. Wake up, Miss.”

  I realized the car was stopped. “Wh … what? Sorry, I didn’t get much sleep last night. I must have totally passed out. Thank God I didn’t dream again; I needed the rest.” I turned to face the back seat. “Hunter, I guess—” But Hunter was gone. Confused, I looked over at the driver.

  The driver hissed again and motioned out the windshield. We were parked on the shoulder of a dirt road next to a thick forest of pine trees. To the right, the trees ended abruptly at the edge of a construction site, a few scraggly weeds dotting the uprooted landscape, trying to regain a foothold in the bare, brown dirt. Several hundred feet away, in the middle of the barren plain, sat a white wooden building in the center of a group of smaller, similar buildings.

  The driver frowned apologetically. “The man, he told me not to wake you. But I think he is a horse’s ass, mais oui?”

  I shook myself awake and reached for the door. “Mais oui. A bucketful of mais oui. Thanks.” The driver smiled. I got out and strode out after Hunter. “Jerk,” I muttered. “Big, frigging, poop-head jerk.” Yeah, way to go, Madison. That’s telling him.

  I surveyed the area as I got out, forgetting my irritation in the face of its beauty. We walked on a large, flat plain edged with trees on one side. On the other was a high, vertical cliff that fell to the ever-frigid St. Lawrence River. Ahead of me stood a cluster of buildings, some kind of resort-in-the-making, complete with picturebook cottages. I could tell, though, that this had once been an old homestead, as a half-collapsed brick house sat off to the side of the new construction, all alone, as if awaiting the final indignity of its razing. Not fifty feet beyond the cutoff of the woods was a large white sign. It proclaimed this area to be the future home of the Northern Glory Resort and promised luxury accommodations and five-star dining amidst the breathtaking panorama of unspoiled nature—once they replanted it, that is.

  When I was on the verge of breaking the cover of the trees, I heard the angry rising of male voices. My gut tightening in wariness, I skittered close to a nearby tree and peered out between the branches. To my surprise, Hunter stood amidst a half-dozen sweat-streaked construction workers, each displaying various states of annoyance. The one nearest Hunter, a square-shouldered, heavily muscled man whose skin shone almost blue-black in the sun, seemed the most irritated. My surprise, though, was due entirely to Hunter’s appearance, since I hadn’t recognized him for a split second. Shirt sleeves rolled up unevenly, tie askew, he stood hunched over, looking several inches shorter, his brawny physique shrunken under the weight of his subdued demeanor. Black, thick-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, his hair a disheveled mess, he tapped on papers on a clipboard he held with one hand in the incessant manner of a sci-fi fanatic trying to make the vital point that Scotty had his drink in one hand before the fight with the Klingons but in his other the next scene.

  “Here! Right here!” he said, his voice having taken on an immensely annoying nasal quality. The glasses slid down his nose and he pushed them back, sniffing wetly and wiping his nose with the back of his hand before rubbing it off on his pants.

  The man beside him, the foreman I guessed, shot Hunter a disgusted look, rolling his eyes at the man closest to him. He reached for the clipboard. “If you’ll let me look at the damn—”

  Hunter tucked the board under his arm. “I’ve already told you: paragraph 15, subparagraph 6, section 2a, clearly states that all new construction, being heretofore approved by appropriate local council, notwithstanding concomitant approvals by federal and/or indigenous governing bodies, must nonetheless, when under clear statutory regulation as administered by said federal and/or indigenous governing bodies, and in consideration of duly registered complaint, whether from private personage or wholly incorporated—”

  A burly, blond, sunburned worker took off his hat and rubbed the sweat off his brow. “What the fuck is he talking about?”

  Hunter pointed at the man, like a grandmother reprimanding young hoodlums. “There is no need for that kind of language.”

  My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Could this possibly be the same man? I knew it had to be, but frankly, he looked like someone had modulated his genetic makeup, clearly removing those genes governing the production of testosterone.
>
  The foreman waved a hand at the blond, his forehead shimmering with sweat, probably as much from the exertion of resisting punching Hunter out as from any physical labor. “Just tell me what you want me to do about this.”

  “Well, clearly, I need to see your exigency forms.”

  The man put his hands on his hips, practically boiling over with impatience. “My what?”

  Hunter snorted and wiped his nose noisily again. “As this is formerly, yet duly registered indigenous lands, granted by treaty dating on or before eighteen—”

  “Don’t start that shit again.” the man said, holding up a hand. “Just tell me where to find these fucking forms.”

  Hunter looked down at his clipboard, rifling through the papers. “There is no need for such rudeness. The forms should have been attached to the permits obtained from local council.”

  “Come on, man! All our paperwork is back at the trailer! It’ll take us more than an hour to get it and get back. It’ll be lunch time by then. Give us a break, huh? Can we do this later?”

  Pushing his glasses high up on his nose, Hunter, the consummate image of the self-important bureaucrat, said, “I’m only doing my job. It’s not my fault your people haven’t done theirs. You can proceed once I have ascertained appropriate documentation is in hand.”

  I tensed as I watched the foreman ball up his fist, certain he was about to take a swing at Hunter. Instead, he took a deep breath and flexed his fingers. “Fine! We’ll get you the fucking paperwork. Well boys, it looks like we just got an early lunch.”

  Several of the men high-fived each other; all shouted their approval. The group walked to a battered white pickup truck parked close by, all but one vaulting into the truck bed, while the foreman and another climbed into the cab. “You coming?” the leader called to Hunter.

  Hunter tucked the clipboard under his arm once more, then pointed at the main house. “I need to further ascertain the state of all construction edifices pertaining to—”

  The man waved him off. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

  The driver started the truck, loudly revving the engine, yelling above the noise. “Hey, bud, I tell you what. There’s a great view from that real steep cliff over by the big house. Why don’t you go check it out? And don’t watch your step. Asshole!” With that he jammed the truck in gear and rocketed forward, dirt and rocks spewing out behind, the men in the back clutching their sides and laughing loudly. As the truck whipped around onto the road, the driver flipped Hunter off.

  Caught in a cloud of dust, Hunter shouted, “There is no need for that kind of behavior!”

  I ducked behind a tree as the truck roared past me. Hunter stood glowering after the vehicle, waiting as the growl of the engine faded into the distance. Then, with a confident cock of his eyebrow, he raised himself to full height, going from geek to gladiator before my eyes. Sweeping his hair back, he rolled one sleeve even with the other and strode purposefully toward me, pausing to pick up a pile of clothes laying strewn over a water cooler nearby.

  Stepping out of the trees, I crossed my arms before my chest. “What was that?”

  Hunter didn’t break stride but walked straight past me to the limo. “Finally woke up, did you? Anyone ever tell you that you snore like a sawmill with asthma?”

  “That doesn’t even make any sense,” I said, embarrassed. We approached the car and the driver got out, taking the clipboard Hunter handed to him. “And I don’t snore.”

  Hunter slid a side-glance at me. “Like hell you don’t. You flushed a couple of moose back there, and they’re probably still running.” He nodded at the driver. “Tell her.”

  The driver smiled apologetically. “Perhaps a little.” He hurried back into his seat.

  Snorting, Hunter said, “At least it kept you out of my way. Now that those jamokes are taken care of, we can get to the main house. I saw two women: one upstairs who matches the general description of the woman from the alley, and another downstairs, blond, heavy-set, and a lot older. I’ll go in the front and you—”

  I put a hand on his arm. “Hang on. Why did you do that back there?”

  He sighed and scratched his nose. “Did you expect that we could question a potential murder suspect, maybe take her into custody, with a half-dozen construction workers around? I had to get rid of them. Nothing will make real men scatter quicker than whiny little bureaucrats.”

  Still struck with amazement, I said, “Weren’t you afraid that they’d call their office?”

  “We passed the office on the way up here; it was empty. I took a calculated risk. Besides, I could’ve fought my way out if I had to, and I had a getaway car nearby.”

  “I can still barely believe you pulled it off. How did you learn to do that?”

  “Look Angel, Jake and I spent nearly as many years being cops as you’ve been alive. Out on the streets with crooks and con artists, one thing you learn is that most people don’t really look at what’s right in front of their faces. And no one thinks they can be taken for a ride, which is what makes it so easy to do just that. A change of posture, a prop, and even a half-convincing lie will get you into a lot of places you couldn’t power through with a bulldozer. You get them to look here,” he said, waving his left hand before me, fingers splayed, “while the action goes on here.” I flinched as he pulled a painter’s ball cap over my head, cramming it down hard.

  “Hey,” I said, reaching up to loosen it. “What’s this for?”

  “Keep it on.” He snapped open a soiled, paint-stained jacket. “And put this on too.”

  Perplexed, I struggled into it even as Hunter bent down and picked up a handful of dirt. “Hey! What are you doing?” I said as he smeared dirt over my cheeks. “Cut it out!”

  “We can’t risk the suspect recognizing you. You need to look like a worker.”

  “I suppose. But—” He grabbed another handful of dirt and rubbed it over my breasts. I swatted his hands away. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  He grinned, his eyes sparkling. “Just trying to be thorough.”

  I glared at him. “Can we just get on with this? What’s the plan?”

  Pointing at the house, a tenth of a mile down the road, he said, “I go in front, do the inspector bit again. You sneak around back. Keep your head down, cap on tight. Act like you know what you’re doing. And God help us on that one.”

  I glowered at him but said nothing.

  He went on, “When you’re in position, signal me. I’ll find a way to get the suspect by a window. We need to know she’s the right woman first. Then—”

  “Hang on. How do I signal you? Oh, wait, this is a construction site. There’s probably some kind of flammable material. I could make a controlled fire, maybe use some chemical to create a subtle change to the smoke, differentiating it sufficiently from the background to—”

  He grabbed the cell phone from my belt, holding it before my face. “Just call me! I’ll put my phone on vibrate, so it won’t attract a lot of attention.”

  “Sure, that’ll work.”

  “Egghead and still a moron,” Hunter said as he keyed his number into Nestor’s cell.

  I snatched the phone and put it back on my belt. “Lighten up! I’m trying to help.”

  “Then do what you’re told. This is a simple operation. We don’t need any fancy science crap. Go to the back door and signal me when you get there. Leave the rest to me. Understood?”

  “Sir, yes, sir!” I said.

  He glared at me, “If you’re not going to take this seriously—”

  “I am! Let’s just go.” I glowered at him, amazed at how quickly things had gone from my admiring him to my wanting to boot him over that cliff the men had talked about.

  Hunter regarded me a few more moments, then pounded his palm on the hood of the car and said to the driver, “We’ll be back soon. Keep an eye out for anyone coming up the road. Come get us if you see anything. And come in a hurry.”

  The driver nodded. He caught my eye, and I saw worry ther
e. I smiled reassuringly at him and turned to follow Hunter, who was already several yards away.

  I split from Hunter, keeping my head down, my hands shoved in my pockets. I walked in a diagonal away from the house, swiftly turning to circle it once I was out of sight of the front. As I came around behind, I heard voices. Hunter and a woman were talking on the front porch.

  “Oui, I am the owner: Melissa Duchampes. And you are, Monsieur?” the female said.

  Hunter launched into his nasal-voiced bureaucrat routine, spouting the same gibberish he’d so masterfully used to con the construction workers. I spotted a narrow set of stairs, with a rail to either side, just outside a screen door. I crept up the stairs and gingerly opened the screen, resting my ear against the wooden back door. The voices were more muffled but still audible.

  Taking my phone off my belt, I toggled in Hunter’s number, signaling I was in place.

  I had just put my ear back to the door when it flew open, sending me tumbling over the rail, the air pushed out of my lungs in one mighty rush. Stunned, I lay on my back, vaguely aware that someone was running away. I shook my head and scrambled to my knees, gingerly touching my nose, now burning with pain.

  Suddenly, the door flew open again, and Hunter launched himself out and onto the porch. A heavy-set blond woman ran up behind him, grabbing him by the arm. “No!” the woman cried out. “Leave her alone. She hasn’t done anything!”

  Hunter shook her off. “Are you all right?” he said, genuine worry on his face.

  I looked up, still dazed. “I hurb by dose.” I touched it gently, sniffed and returned to my normal voice. “I mean I hurt my nose. It’s okay, though. It’s not broken.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Were you standing behind the door?!”

  I exhaled, too humiliated to answer, and pointed behind him. “She’s getting away!”

  Hunter turned, growled, and vaulted the railing, hitting the ground at a run. He was well behind the woman but running like a tailback. I could tell instantly the sprinter was Tina. Hauling myself to my feet, I fought off an initial wave of dizziness and then ran after them.