by Trace Conger
Ollie leveled his shotgun at Albert as Peter walked around the sofa, grabbed Mitch by the shoulders and dropped him next to Albert. “Sit your ass down.”
“Give me the phone,” said Ollie.
Peter pulled a cell phone from his front pocket and traded the cell for the shotgun. Ollie dialed.
“It’s me,” he said into the receiver. “We’re at Mitch Skinner’s place. Bring the boat and we’ll meet you at his dock in fifteen minutes.” Ollie looked at Albert and Mitch. “Bring two anchors.”
Albert grabbed his side and leaned against the arm of the couch.
Ollie slipped the phone back into Peter’s pocket. “If either one moves or says a word, crack ‘em in the skull,” he said. Then he turned and walked out the front door.
A FEW MINUTES LATER OLLIE returned with a file folder and two sets of handcuffs. He opened the folder and placed two documents on the coffee table in front of Albert and Mitch. Albert scanned the document. It was a warranty deed.
“What’s this?” said Albert.
“This is the paper you’re going to sign transferring the deed to your home over to me.”
“The fuck I will.”
“You’re gonna sign it,” said Ollie handing Albert a pen. “Or my boy here is gonna blow your skull right through that window into Mitch’s back yard.”
“You’re going to kill us anyway,” said Albert. “Why don’t you take this pen and shove it down your dick hole?”
“I’m going to get those properties,” said Ollie. “You can either sign them over to me now, or I can wait for your kin to take ownership after they pull your bloated corpses from that lake. And then I can go after them.”
Albert shook his head. “This can’t be legal.”
Ollie tapped the document with his finger. “It’s totally legal. Already notarized and everything.” He smiled. “You sign it, I take it to the county recorder’s office and then I own your island and everything on it.”
“I’ll contest it,” said Albert. “No one’ll believe you.”
“You won’t contest shit, ‘cuz you’ll be dead.” Ollie motioned to Peter who walked over and placed the shotgun an inch from Albert’s forehead. Mitch scooted over to the far side of the couch.
“Fine, you piece of shit.” Albert clicked open the pen and signed on the line where Ollie pointed. Ollie snatched the pen from Albert’s hand and gave it to Mitch who did the same on the other warranty deed.
“It’s a pleasure doing business with you two.” Ollie slammed his right elbow into Mitch’s face, pushed him face down into the couch cushion and cuffed his hands behind him. He turned to Albert. “Hands behind you, or you get the same.” Albert leaned forward and placed his hands behind him. Ollie intertwined the second set of cuffs with the first and then cinched them on Albert’s wrists, securing both men back to back.
“You don’t have to do this, Ollie,” said Mitch. “I’ll go to the police and admit what we did. Tell them it was me who planted that trailer.”
“Too late for that.” He pointed toward the back window. “You’re both going to the bottom of that lake tonight.”
The steady hum of a boat’s motor rumbled through the pine trees and settled into Mitch’s living room. Ollie looked out the large window at the back of the room and then turned to Peter, who still trained the shotgun on both men. “William’s here. Let’s go.”
Peter handed the shotgun back to Ollie, grabbed Mitch by the shoulders and yanked both men to their feet. “Move!”
Peter dragged the men through the back door and forced them down the steep back yard to the dock below. Fifty yards out, William angled the black and silver pontoon boat toward the dock. He guided it in until the side eased against the gray bumpers attached to Mitch’s weathered dock. William grabbed the bowline and quickly tied it off on a cleat, then returned to the wheel.
“Let’s go,” said Ollie. Peter yanked both men forward and pushed them onto the idling boat. He moved them toward the rear of the boat, next to the two gurgling outboard engines and directly behind where William stood at the wheel. He kicked their legs out from under them, sending Mitch and Albert down onto the gray carpet.
“You don’t have to do this,” said Mitch.
“Shut up. You can’t fuck with me and get away with it.” Ollie propped a leg on the one of the boat seats. “You shoulda run, Mitch. You shoulda run far away. And you.” He turned to Albert. “You shoulda never come back.”
Peter climbed out of the boat and started to untie the bowline, when a voice came from Mitch’s back yard.
“THAT’S ENOUGH. NOW STEP AWAY from that line.” Neil Cutter approached, his 9 mm in one hand and a flashlight in the other. Peter looked up, but kept untying the bowline. “I mean it,” said Cutter. “Step away from that line or I’ll put you down.” He looked past Peter and into the boat where he saw William behind the wheel. Ollie stood next to him gripping a shotgun. “Ollie, you drop that shotgun. Then William, you kill that engine and you both step off the boat onto the dock.”
Ollie maneuvered behind the boat’s windshield for cover. “This don’t concern you, Cutter. Move along before something bad happens to you.”
“Nothing bad is happening to me today,” said Cutter, stopping about ten feet from the dock. “I said drop that shotgun, Ollie. I’m not going to ask you again.”
After a moment of staring down Cutter’s 9 mm, Ollie bent over and laid the shotgun on the floor next to his feet.
Cutter shifted his aim to William who still towered behind the wheel. “Mitch, you two okay back there?”
“Maybe a few broken ribs,” said Mitch. “But we’re still breathing.”
Cutter took two more steps. “That’s good.” He glanced at Peter who stood on the dock with his hands raised high into the air and then focused back on William. “You’ve got five seconds to kill that engine, son, and I don’t count.”
Cutter saw Ollie’s leg kick something to the right, and he tightened the grip on his 9 mm. William bent down, grabbed the shotgun, raised it up over the windshield, and braced it against his right shoulder. Cutter fired two quick rounds. Both shots found their way through the boat’s windshield and into William’s chest, knocking him into the steering column and then onto the floor. Ollie dove below the windshield for cover.
Cutter checked Peter and then refocused on the top of Ollie’s head poking up just behind the windshield. “Your turn Ollie,” he said. “I won’t miss from here.”
Ollie hesitated. Then he slowly stood up, eyeing the shotgun on the floor. “You won’t reach it before I get a round off,” said Cutter. “But you can try if you want. I don’t care either way.”
Ollie looked at Cutter, then back to the shotgun. Then he raised both hands into the air.
“That’s probably the smartest thing you did today,” said Cutter. “Now step out of the boat, and then you and your other boy walk toward me and lay face-down on the ground.”
Ollie and Peter complied, and Cutter cuffed them both together on the dock. Mitch and Albert struggled against each other’s weight to stand. They moved together like partners in a three-legged race. They stepped off the boat, onto the dock, and moved toward Cutter.
“Now there’s a sight I won’t forget anytime soon,” said Cutter returning his sidearm to its holster.
“I thought you weren’t going after Ollie,” said Mitch. “That it was a state police matter. Not in your jurisdiction.”
“It became my jurisdiction once they climbed aboard that boat.” He pointed his flashlight toward the water. “On my lake.”
“Sure took you long enough,” said Albert leading Mitch up toward the house. “How’d you know we’d be here?”
“Lucky guess I suppose.”
“Looks to me like you was using us as bait,” said Mitch. “To draw these shitholes out.”
Cutter crossed his arms. “Now that wouldn’t be very professional of me, would it?”
“Professional?” said Albert. “Why start now?”
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Forty Four
BROOKE SAID SOMETHING ON THE phone with me a few days ago that I couldn’t get out of my head. She asked if I thought Holbrook would really let Daryl off the hook after I returned his money. The truth is, I didn’t know, but I had a nagging suspicion that both Daryl and I would be dead weight once Holbrook had his cash.
To Holbrook, people like me and Daryl were a dime a dozen, and he’s got more to lose by putting us back on the street than he did by putting two in the back of our heads. That horse farm was a big place and I didn’t like the idea of all that acreage hiding Holbrook’s liabilities. I reviewed my options, and there weren’t many. The most enticing option was to kill Holbrook to ensure I wouldn’t be looking over my shoulder every day, but that wasn’t going to be easy.
Holbrook was one man in a chain of people. Even if he was at the top, if I removed him, someone else would rise up and take his place, and I’d be in an even shittier position than I’m in now. Holbrook and his crew were like a hornet nest, and the thing about hornets is you have to kill them all at once or you risk getting your ass stung or the survivors repopulating the colony.
Luckily, I had experience with hornets. When my brother and I were kids, we had a white aluminum shed in our backyard. It was about six-foot square and was packed with lawnmower parts, rusted-out yard tools, old patio furniture, extension cords, and a few tiki torches that we never used. One summer we found a hornets’ nest stuck to the side of the shed. Connor and I ran to tell our father, who said he’d take care of it when he had more time.
My father explained how he’d do it. Said the best way to get rid of them was to park a grill under the nest, light it up and smoke them out. Then once they left the nest, you seal up the hole. Then they leave for good.
When you’re a twelve-year-old kid, smoke is cool, but fire is cooler. That’s why Connor and I decided to burn the fucker down instead. We doused that mud lump with lighter fluid and set it ablaze using one of the tiki torches from the shed. When the lighter fluid burned off, we’d add more and relight. It took a while, but eventually the entire thing went up in flames like the Hindenburg. Some of the hornets came buzzing out of the nest engulfed in flames. They’d circle around for a few seconds and then plummet to the ground like downed fighter planes.
My father must have seen the flames from inside the house, because he ran out the back door screaming at us to get away from the nest. By then it was burning on its own and there wasn’t anything to do but watch it sizzle. The nest finally fell to the ground and burned out in front of us.
My father wasn’t happy. He smacked Connor in the head and threatened to kick both our asses up and down Linden Drive, but he didn’t. I think it’s because he was happy to see Connor and I working together to solve a problem, even if it wasn’t our problem to solve. Nothing screams “teamwork” like a flaming mud ball and a few hundred hornet carcasses.
Killing Holbrook and his men was the only way to completely be sure Daryl and I were out. And to protect Brooke and Becca. But Holbrook wouldn’t go down easy. He was the type of person who expected people to try and kill him. He dealt with that every day. That’s why he had a bullet-proof vest under his white button-up shirt when I met him at his farm. He probably never left home without it.
I needed to be smart about our next step, and I needed to make sure Holbrook and his crew didn’t see it coming. If he did, Daryl, Connor, and I would be as dead as those hornets.
Forty Five
I CALLED CONNOR ONCE I made it back onto the highway to tell him I’d survived my meeting with Dunbar and not to call Holbrook. After clicking off with him, I drove for three hours before pulling off at a truck stop an hour north of Indianapolis. I didn’t like the idea of keeping Holbrook’s cash out in the open, but I also didn’t like the idea of falling asleep and careening through a guardrail somewhere on I-69.
For the next several hours, I slept with $5 million in my trunk and a .45 in my hand. The blast from an 18-wheeler’s horn woke me around 6:30 am Tuesday morning. I fired up the engine, pulled back onto I-69, and arrived at Jamie’s condo an hour and a half later. I hoped she was an early riser.
I jerked one of the suitcases out of the back of the Escalade and hoisted it up the iron steps to her unit. She must have seen me coming, because she opened the door before I had a chance to knock.
“Is that what I think it is?” said Jamie.
“Probably.”
“Why are you bringing it here? I told you I didn’t want anything to do with it.”
I grabbed the handle and stepped closer, nudging her backward. “Can we talk about this inside?”
She stepped to the side, and waved me in. I wheeled the suitcase through her living room and maneuvered it into her sewing room. I kicked it over, and it hit the ground with a crash that sounded like it might break through the floor and end up in the unit below.
I unzipped the case, heaved it onto its side, and dumped two-and-a-half million in bundled cash onto the floor of Jamie’s sewing room.
“Jesus Christ!” she said. “Is that all of Holbrook’s money?”
“It’s half of it.”
Her eyes narrowed as she looked at me. “Why did you bring it here?”
“We’re going to end this thing, but like I said earlier, I need your help.”
“What do you need me to do?”
I looked over at the row of fabric lining the back wall of her sewing room. Rolls of fabric, in every color imaginable, stood side by side in an orderly row like dominoes ready to fall. She’d organized them by color. Some had patterns on them, but most were plain.
“Is any of that fabric waterproof?”
“No, but I can get some,” she said. “What’s it for?”
I tapped the open suitcase with my foot. “I need to line the inside of this suitcase, but it has to be waterproof.”
“Why are you lining the inside of a suitcase?”
“I’m not. You are. But it has to be watertight. Nothing can get through it.”
She wiped her hand across her neck. “I can use Naugahyde. It’s waterproof.” She looked at the suitcase. “The whole inside?”
“Both sides, and then stitch a barrier in the middle, to keep each side separate. Like one of those old McDLTs. Keep the hot side hot and the cool side cool.”
“Okay.”
I thought for a moment. “Can you stitch it in a way so the partition rips inside the suitcase when it’s opened?”
“I’m not sure I follow you,” she said.
“I want the partition to be stable and watertight, but I also want it to rip in two when the case is opened. Does that make sense?”
Jamie looked at me and then back down at the suitcase.
“It makes sense, but I’m not sure how to do it. I need the suitcase open to stitch in the partition, but …” She rubbed her mouth and squinted at the case. “That’s like asking me to change a lightbulb inside a refrigerator without opening the door.”
“Can you do it?”
She thought for a moment. “If it means those men never come looking for me, I’ll find a way.” Jamie shook her head, cocked her hip to the side, and scratched her neck. “But, you’re not going to be able to open it. I can rig the inside partition to split once, but I’m going to have to stitch it as I close the suitcase inch by inch. You won’t be able to open it without ripping it in two.”
“That’s fine. I’ll make it work. Can you have it ready by tomorrow?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Remember, it has to be completely watertight.”
“It will be.” She rubbed her mouth again. “You want to tell me what you’re going to do with it?”
“It’s better if you don’t know.” I turned and walked toward the front door. “I’ll be back first thing tomorrow. It’s got to be finished.”
“And watertight,” she added.
THE TIME RIDING THE PAVEMENT between Cincinnati, Indianapolis, and Detroit had
begun to wear on me. I hated the road, and when possible, I’d rather work from the confines of my own home with my laptop on my thighs and a cup of hot coffee in my hand. Over the past several days, I’d spent more time on the road than I wanted to, but being in the field had yielded more progress than I would have gained otherwise. After two weeks and a few thousand miles, I’d discovered the Banker’s identity, found Holbrook’s cash, and secured Dunbar’s participation in my plan to bring the Indianapolis enterprise to its knees. All that was left to do was weave it all together, and Jamie Burns was doing just that, literally, with her Singer sewing machine.
I arrived at the Embassy Suites to find Connor polishing off a continental breakfast on a bench next to the front door. He jumped up from the bench and stuffed his paper plate into a nearby garbage can when he saw me.
Connor met me in the parking lot. I opened the lift gate and he eyeballed the gray suitcase. “You actually got it?” he said.
“I got it.”
“All of it?”
“You’re Goddamm right, all of it.”
He slapped me on the shoulder, nearly knocking me off balance. “I’ll be honest with you, little brother. I thought you were full of shit. I half expected to have my nose buried in that dusty atlas again, starting from scratch.”
“Part of me thought the same thing. But we got it.”
“That all of it?”
“It’s half. I left the rest with Jamie.”
“Why?”
“It’s technically her money, and she needed the other suitcase for what’s going to happen next.”
“What’s happening next?” said Connor.
“I’ll tell you in the room.” I handed Connor the suitcase, shut the lift gate, and started toward the lobby. Connor followed close behind. When we arrived in Connor’s room, I slipped the Post-It pad from my pocket and scribbled down a materials list. When I finished, I plucked off the top sheet and handed it to Connor. “You know anything about these materials?”