Dying Breath

by J. A. Konrath

  I went back into my cab and took out the brown paper bag that I used for garbage. It was half-filled with pop cans and candy wrappers. I added my plates to the mix and went shopping, the bag in my hand.

  A Ford Bronco is a popular truck and I found my first one after twenty minutes of walking through the parking lot. After discreetly looking to see if any owner was coming, I removed the front plate and replaced it with mine. Then I did the same with the rear plate. My new plates went into the bag. I searched for another fifteen minutes before I found another Bronco, and again I did a plate exchange.

  My license plates were now twice removed from my vehicle.

  If either of those trucks were pulled over, it would take a lot of sorting out before the law figured out which plates I was using. I made my way back to my truck, put the new plates on, and got back on the road, feeling a little better about my situation.

  The smarter move would have been to ditch the Bronco altogether, but I had limited funds on me to buy a new one, and stealing a car was asking for trouble. Hopefully this would be enough to get me where I was going.

  The map told me that once past Eau Claire I had to head West toward the Minnesota border. That took about eighty minutes, driving through darkness so thick it had weight.

  I used to love the dark. I wondered if I ever would again.

  I still like the dark. It’s dark inside you. It lets me eat in peace.

  I ignored Earl, rolled through the tangled on ramps and off ramps of the Twin Cities, and then started looking for a place to spend the night. I followed some signs to the Woodland Motel, waking up the fat proprietor and giving him cash and a false name. My room was small and smelled musty from lack of use. The tourist business wasn’t what it used to be, I guess.

  Six more aspirin found their way into my mouth, along with two glasses of water. The night was cool, and I pulled the stiff blankets up to my chin, staring through my window at a traffic light a block away.

  Green.

  Yellow.

  Red.

  Green.

  Yellow.

  Red.

  I closed my eyes and thought about how I was going to kill Tucker Shears.

  JACK

  Motels for me were torture. A strange, hard bed. Different smells. Strange sounds. I didn’t expect to sleep a wink.

  My headache didn’t help things.

  I remembered too many beers at that Irish pub, Lester and his ski mask buddies, too many whiskeys with McGlade, talking to Dalt at the Amaco, and talking to the Feebies, but the later stuff was just fragments, not clear memories.

  And now I was in Minnesota, out of my jurisdiction, following up on a murder case that was no longer mine.

  Why? To save lives? To catch bad guys? To salve a bruised ego? To avoid dealing with my fiancé and mother?

  I decided to focus on the first two. Saving those women, and putting away the Motel Mauler. Those goals were altruistic, not selfish, and I was tired of dwelling on how selfish I’d been.

  Enough of the moping, Jack. Be the woman you want to be, not the one you wished you weren’t.

  I took some ibuprofen, drank the water, ate one of the dessert cakes, and closed my eyes, trying to will myself to sleep.

  My will wasn’t strong enough.

  Sleep wasn’t going to happen, so I turned on the TV. Since I’m human, and there was nothing else on, I flipped on one of the dirty channels and found a badly dubbed foreign softcore comedy. From the ugly hair and ugly clothes, it must have been made in the seventies. The plot involved a guy with very large sideburns who had two dicks. For some reason unknown to me, this drove the women wild, and every time he dropped his pants the girls around him would disrobe.

  The movie was so mind-numbing, so perfectly awful, that less than ten minutes into it I did the unexpected.

  I fell asleep.

  # # #

  I woke up at a little after 6am. The television was still on, the dirty channel having some sort of big boob contest on some beach. I flipped it off and wondered if softcore porn could be the cure for my insomnia. I’d have to look into it when I got back.

  My headache was tolerable. I did my exercises. A hundred sit-ups. Fifty push-ups. Two hundred squats. Then I showered, toweled off, dressed, and went in search of a toothbrush.

  The day was bright, crisp, and glorious. It smelled different than Illinois, woodsy and clean.

  I hadn’t been lucid enough last night to pay attention which room McGlade was in, and I wasn’t going to start knocking on random doors to find him, so I made my way to the lobby. The clerk was a sweet-looking older woman who wore rouge like clowns wore greasepaint.

  “I’m in 112,” I said. “I checked in last night with a friend, and forgot his room number.”

  “Doesn’t seem like much of a friend, then.”

  “He’s alright. Annoying, but he has his moments. Can you tell me what room he’s in?”

  “Name?”

  “McGlade. Harry McGlade.”

  “He’s in 114.”

  “Thanks. And do you know where I can get a toothbrush, and something to eat?”

  “Toothbrush is right behind you, and there’s a diner just up the road. Follow the signs.”

  I nodded, turned, and saw a vending machine. It contained various sundries, including a wide variety of condoms. I managed to find four quarters in my purse, and got a disposable toothbrush with the toothpaste already added to the bristles.

  I stopped at Harry’s room before going back to mine, and gave it a firm knock.

  “Yes?” came a squeaky voice. It was McGlade, trying to sound like he had a woman with him.

  “It’s Jack. Want to get breakfast?”

  “Breakfast?” he said, in his regular voice. “Yeah. Gimme five minutes.”

  I brushed my teeth. The hard, embedded toothpaste was unpleasant, but did the job. I rinsed it off and stuck it in my purse, and then gave Herb a call.

  “Jack? Little late for the BBQ.”

  “I decided to take a vacation, Herb.”

  “I’m surprised. Where are you and Latham going?”

  “Minnesota.”

  “I’m not surprised. Vacation, huh?”

  “I’m not with Latham. I’m with McGlade.”

  I gave Herb the quick version.

  “You obviously know the trouble you can get into for doing this,” he said. “Is that why you’re calling? For me to talk you out of it?”

  “I need you to do a NCIC record search on Edward Cline, Garrett McConnroy, and known associates.”

  “Jack…”

  “We’re just going to make sure the women with Cline are okay. That’s all. If they aren’t at his house, or McConnroy’s, I want to have some idea where to look for them.”

  “I’ll get back to you,” Herb said.

  He hung up before I could thank him.

  I went to go get McGlade, and found him standing outside my door, scanning the parking lot.

  “Looking for something?” I asked.

  “Let me know if you see any white vans.”

  “You want to tell me why?”

  “No. Just let me know. You mentioned breakfast?”

  I pointed at a sign that said, “Grandma’s Diner.”

  “We can’t eat there,” Harry said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s not our diner. It’s Grandma’s.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t get it.”

  “It’s Grandma’s diner. Meaning she’s the only one that can eat there. A play of words on the possessive.”

  “It wasn’t funny.”

  “Nothing’s funny if you have to explain it.”

  “It wasn’t funny, period.”

  “Want to bet that Grandma is actually a thirty year old guy named Nikos?”

  “I need coffee,” I said, “It’s too early for you.”

  # # #

  The diner was tiny, only ten tables and a counter with six stools. Two of the stools, and one of the tabl
es, were occupied. Harry and I grabbed a table, and I peeked behind the counter and saw that the cook did, indeed, appear to be a young, swarthy guy.

  Our waitress came over. She had a coffee pot and wore an expression like the world owed her money. Harry and I turned over the cups on our table; universal diner-speak for fill us up. She did.

  “Would you like to hear the specials?”

  “Please.”

  She didn’t seem pleased, but launched into her spiel. “Our specialty is the pancake mouse, with fresh strawberries and cream.”

  “What’s a pancake mouse?” Harry asked.

  “It’s three pancakes, joined together. A big one for the head, and two small ones for the ears.”

  “Like Mickey Mouse.”

  “We can’t say Mickey Mouse. Disney sent us a cease and desist letter.”

  “I’ll take it,” Harry said. “I love it when my breakfast includes trademark infringement.”

  “Bacon?”

  “Does it look like Porky Pig?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll have some anyway. And raisin bread toast. With no raisins.”

  “You want raisin bread without raisins?”

  Harry batted his eyelashes. “Can you pluck them all out for me?”

  “Ignore him, he thinks he’s funny. Any other specials?”

  “Eggs Benedict, with homemade hollandaise sauce.”

  I thought of Herb. “Nah. Got a friend by that name.”

  “What name?” she asked. “Eggs?”

  Was she trying to be funny now? I couldn’t tell.

  Harry jumped on it, though. “Do you know why his parents named him eggs?”

  “Why?” She asked.

  “Because they liked a good yolk.”

  No one laughed.

  “It’s like you two are made of stone,” Harry said.

  “I’ll take a broccoli and cheese omelet. Bacon and wheat toast, please.”

  My phone rang. It was Herb.

  “No record on Cline. You already know McConnroy’s rap sheet. He has one known associate. Guy named Tucker Shears, out of Green Birch. Assault and battery. Disorderly conduct. Cruelty to animals.”

  “Can you text me his picture?”

  “Sure. I love helping you ruin your career on my day off.”

  Once again he hung up before I could thank him.

  “Fat boy seems irritated,” Harry said. “Maybe his wife is hiding the donuts. If she put them under his workout gear, he’d starve before he found them.”

  Our food came, and McGlade was blessedly silent while we ate, though he did make little mouse screaming noises as he carved up Mickey’s face. After a second cup of coffee, and half my omelet, I was feeling back to normal.

  “So tell me about this white van,” I said to Harry. He was using the strawberries to make it look like Mickey had a severed artery.

  “It’s nothing you’d be interested in.”

  “It actually is.”

  McGlade looked up from the mouse vivisection on his plate and appraised me. “Really? I’m touched you care, Jackie. Since you’re insisting, I’ve been getting death threats, and the other day a sniper shot up my condo, trying to kill me.”

  “And the sniper is in a white van?”

  “I don’t know what he drives. But when we were coming up here last night, I noticed a white van following us. Can I ask why the sudden interest in my well-being?”

  “Because a white van just pulled into the parking lot,” I said.

  PHIN

  My wake-up call came at seven. I started the morning like I started every morning.

  With pain.

  I padded into the shower, took off the bandages on my arms, and stepped into the scalding shower, letting the needle spray sting my eyes and poke at my stitches. I lathered up with one of those ridiculous motel soaps the size of a credit card, scrubbing until all of the pain was replaced by heat. Even Earl’s munching at my organs was lost in the barrage of soap and water.

  I stayed in the shower longer than I needed, letting it pound me into shape, and then I stepped out and toweled vigorously off with a towel thin enough to see through. The pins and needles feeling slowly reverted back to pain, but now it was more bearable. I rubbed the steam off the mirror, pulled a disposable razor out of my bag, and ran it over my head and face.

  Bald may be beautiful, but it wasn’t on me.

  I looked mean.

  After rewrapping the old bandages over my hands and forearms I dug out a fresh pair of jeans and a T-Shirt from my sports bag. I debated between my Nikes and my elephant boots, and went with the boots.

  Then I was off to Lake Violet.

  It was one of those cool crisp mornings that covered everything with dew. I climbed into the Bronco, eating gas station snacks while checking my map.

  Lake Violet was a three hundred and twenty nine acre lake with two main access roads. It took me forty minutes to get to the nearest, just past a tiny bait shop with an ancient fuel pump in front, and I almost missed it. Eagle Lane was a narrow, one-lane gravel and sand affair that would have been almost impossible to see at night. According to the map, it led to the lake and made a half circle around the West side.

  I turned, my Bronco eating up the road, and just as I was coming around a bend I had to slam on the brakes. An eight point buck stared back at me, so completely still he looked stuffed.

  I noticed a mark on his shoulder. A healed bullet wound.

  He was a survivor.

  Our eyes met. I didn’t see any fear. Only defiance.

  “If I meet the guy who did that to you,” I said, “I’ll return the favor.”

  Without any warning, he bolted into the woods, leaping a fallen tree like a steeplechase champion, fading into the trees in a blink.

  I got on my way, slower this time. Two hundred meters down the road I reached the first house.

  The first thing I saw was a large canvas-wrapped boat on a trailer, giving me almost instant verification that the nearby cottage was empty. I drove past, parking off-road in the woods. Smith & Wesson in hand, I left my truck and cautiously made my way back to the house, looking and listening for any signs of humans.

  The shades were all drawn, the back porch covered with dirt and leaves. The grass, even this early in the season, was already in need of a trim. All indications that no one had been here since last summer. I walked toward the house on the sand driveway, keeping to the tree line, stepping lightly on grass and rocks and still leaving footprints. That was the clincher. If the house were inhabited, there’d be tire tracks all over the place.

  I walked past it, to the lake.

  Standing on the shore and looking out over the black water, I realized this was going to be easier than I thought. I could see the entire body of water, which stretched out and tapered at the other end, like an ear of corn.

  Or a pancreas, Earl said.

  Very few piers were set up this early in the spring, and the houses in plain sight didn’t number more than a dozen, all on this half of the lake. Across from me, on the lake’s opposite shore a hundred meters away, there was only a single house. It had its dock up, a fancy boat tied to it.

  Something caught my attention peripherally. I spun my 9mm around and dropped to one knee, drawing a bead on an egret. It was white, stood about three feet tall on spindly yellow legs, and gave me a squawk that sounded so much like a woman’s scream I almost fired. I let the tension go from my fingers, lowered my gun, and stared. The bird stretched out its enormous wings, then leapt up into the air, flying in a wide arc over the lake.

  This is turning into a nature special, Earl said. Any minute now a squirrel will jump out of a tree and eat nuts from your hand.

  I went back to the truck, keeping an eye out for squirrels. I didn’t see any.

  Getting back on Eagle Lane, I came to another sandy driveway, which lead to another empty house. I kept going and managed to find people at the next cottage I encountered.

  This one was built out o
f uncut lumber, log cabin-style, with big glass windows and a satellite dish on the roof. Parked in front of the house, on the patchy grass taking root in the sand, was a Ford station wagon, vintage 1970s. There were no other cars, in particular Tucker’s Land Rover. And I didn’t think one of his buddies would be driving a Country Squire.

  I parked, clipped my stolen police badge to my belt, grabbed my binoculars, and walked along the tree line.

  From a vantage point behind a large spruce, I had a clear view into the kitchen window. I raised the Bushnells to my eyes, feeling like the voyeur I was.

  I saw a woman, mid-fifties, walk to the refrigerator and pull out an entire slab of bacon. She unwrapped the slab, and put the entire thing in a cast iron skillet she had on the counter. This went on the stove. Then she went back to the fridge and took out a whole stick of butter, adding this to the bacon.

  The woman was dangerous, obviously, but not the type of dangerous I was looking for. I searched for other windows and quickly found one leading into a bedroom. A middle aged man was putting on some brown slacks, having to lift up a large section of his belly to find his waist. That was to be expected, from the way his wife cooked.

  I tucked the binocs into my back pocket, and stepped out from behind my tree to knock on their door. My threat-o-meter was down to zero, unless they tried to feed me. But maybe they knew something about the other residents of this lake.

  I did the standard shave-and-a-haircut knock, and tried to look as non-threatening as possible. I heard some mumbling behind the door, probably the couple asking each other who it could be, and after about ten seconds of back-and-forth the door opened.

  The man stood there, the woman peering from under his shoulder. They looked more curious than suspicious. I tried a smile on for size. It felt wrong, and I hoped it didn’t look too hideous.

  “Hi, folks. I’m Mark Stevens, from Chicago.”

  I held out a hand and the man took it. I noticed a scar on his bare chest, white and faded. He was no stranger to heart surgery. Again, no surprises there.

  “I’m Fred Hardson, and this is my wife Edna. Is this official business, Mark?”

  He was looking at my badge.