Lomak glanced at his watch, then back to the laptop. He was seated on the couch with the joystick. The computer was open on the coffee table, the game METEOROIDS. You were on this alien planet, and protected yourself by blasting incoming meteors. When you ran out of laser juice, you escaped in the space module to the Federated Defense Fleet.
The gauze bandage on his hand made it hard to work the joystick. When he wrapped the wound, Schmidt had said he should have a tetanus shot. It was the women, Lomak explained. They messed me up. Got in my way when I was working the lure out of the pike.
“Shit—”
His blaster stopped firing. He worked the joystick, dodged another flying rock, and hustled behind boulders. A flaming ball came down. In the instant before it smashed his ship, the screen flashed ACTIVATE DEFLECTOR SHIELD! Too late.
He hit QUIT and clicked off the computer. On the sofa next to him rested a plate of roast beef stew. He took up the plate, sat back and resumed eating. Dinty Moore. Better than last night’s chili, but Rohmer and Indian Joe, no canned food for them.
“Four women,” he said, eating. “Asking and fetching all evening. If you was there, you’d be pitching in, too. Right, Doreen?”
Fetching, smiling. Laughing at their jokes. He saw Doreen bringing Charlie Schmidt more short ribs from the slow cooker, one of his own favorites. All because he changed a fucking tire. It angered him, being the one they should thank. Two women playing fisherman, not knowing how to find their ass with both hands, even when it was hanging out for the world to see.
Finished with the stew, he put the plate on the table and sat back, hands behind his head. Louis was full of plans. What you had to do was make sure he didn’t screw you at the end. He would have backup ideas, “contingency plans” he would call them. It meant you had to think ahead.
But it was hard. Lomak closed his eyes to concentrate. He remembered Rohmer’s call in March, after Rohmer had read a New York Times story on women lawyers. “I knew Marion Ross in college,” he said. “It’s not fair what happened to you, and I have a business proposition you might want to consider.”
Using the daughter’s school chat room, Rohmer had hacked into the Ross’s computer. He had learned the Rosses were preparing to invest heavily in an English financial-planning company. Rohmer’s own plan was to carjack Marion Ross in Detroit, and force her to transfer the money to an offshore account. But when Rohmer learned Marion Ross was going fishing in the Boundary Waters, he had changed the plan. “This is perfect, I know someone with a place there. It’s cut off, completely remote.”
Before coming back that afternoon, they had taken the Stratos to Kettle Falls. Rohmer kept repeating the plan, pointing to landmarks. His biggest concern was cell phones, that the women might be able to call for help before he and Lomak were in the air. He was sure Charlie would take them all to Johnson Bay, leaving the houseboat empty.
“He could screw me there,” Lomak said. “Except he knows what that would mean.”
But did he know? Lomak opened his eyes, facing the painting over the fireplace. He closed them. After the wire transfer, that’s when Rohmer would pull whatever shit he had in mind. He was supposed to fly to the falls and pick up Lomak. Then they were gone. Home free, on their way to Costa Rica.
He again opened his eyes and studied the Indian above the fireplace. But if Rohmer left alone, it was game over. Except that would mean Lomak no longer had anything to lose. Exactly. The idea made him feel better. “Nothing to lose, nothing to lose—”
That was it. Problem solved. He had nothing to lose, because he would have a phone. Police would know how to intercept Rohmer’s plane. How to track him. “Do right, we be tight,” Lomak said. “Otherwise, it’s hard time for you, Louis. Up here in some frozen joint, some mean-mother Hershey highwaymen running a train on your sorry ass. Hah!”
He liked that a lot, and now remembered seeing the redhead bare-assed through the binoculars. Buns of steel, cute. Something like Doreen, or the waitress in Brownie’s. He got up and moved quickly to the bathroom. Lomak snapped on the light and looked at himself, seeing the waitress coming with her tray of drinks. Bouncing. Late twenties, maybe thirty. He saw her leaning down with the tray, giving him a good look, then looking straight at him. Damn, he thought. Jerry Vale’s younger brother strikes again.
He clicked off the bathroom light and stepped out. Holy shit—
Lomak stood motionless. The bedroom door opposite hung open. The room’s window curtain was tied back, and now the glass blinked with the last downward dip and disappearance of something below the window frame. He was sure of it. A rack of antlers, a buck. It was still there, bowed below the window. Eating. Not forty feet from where he stood.
The curtain was open, window closed. No scent would come from the house. He crept out of alignment with the window. If the buck raised up and saw any flicker of movement inside—goodbye.
In the cedar chest outside his own bedroom, that’s where Schmidt kept his guns. A Browning over-and-under, a Remington 30-0-6. He had taken the scope sight, it was still in the Stratos.
He didn’t need it, not at this range.
Carefully he pulled off his Reeboks, set them down and padded over the floor’s heavy planks. He opened the chest and lifted out the deer rifle. Boxes of ammunition were stacked along the side. He opened one, got out three rounds and carefully chambered them.
He stood and thought about it. The door wall in the kitchen was open. But step outside, even if you did it perfect, the buck would hear or smell you. You could maybe crawl in the bedroom and get a shot off through the closed window. Or it might come around the front. Every second made him more nervous, a chance slipping away. To kill the buck would mean something. Prove his luck, assure the future.
He decided on the bedroom and moved carefully, watching his stocking feet. At the entry Lomak pressed against the wall. It would be best to have the rifle ready, to take the shot from the open entry. He counted to himself before rolling left—but in the corner of his right eye, he now saw the buck’s head slip across the kitchen’s open door wall. Slowly, head down and browsing, it was crossing not fifteen feet below the porch slab.
A gift. Confirmation everything would work out. Lomak raised the rifle and sighted for the heart. He squeezed slowly—never pull, that was a problem he had, but not here, not today. Because this was a sign. Everything was going to work, the whole plan a lock—
The buck raised up. Lomak pulled.
He knew in the rifle’s dead-heavy report it was wrong. Reflexively he fired again at nothing. His ears rang.
He ran to the kitchen and out the open door wall, tumbled off the slab, now out on the lawn. Maybe he heard it running, and turned. Defeated, rifle raised and breathing through his mouth, he stared into thick trees behind Schmidt’s pole barn. No buck, no moving branches or sign it had ever been there. Everything was at rest. A perfect shot. Impossible to miss.
Anything could spook them, and looking over the raised rifle at the still-shiny pole barn, Lomak was now sure a bright glint from the barn’s new metal had done it.
Movement. He spun with the raised rifle and was sighting on a man at the back of Schmidt’s pickup. You, he thought. Not the pole barn, you spooked my kill.
He fired.
The shot echoed out behind him, over the lake. Ears ringing, Lomak lowered the rifle, watching as the man, standing at the back of Schmidt’s pickup, reached to steady himself on the truck’s tailgate. Something, papers, fell from his right hand. He let go of the tailgate and dropped.
“Aw fuck—”
The man bowed his head and landed on his knees. Slowly, he fell on his side.
Lomak ran forward. “See, I thought you was a buck—” Sharp twigs and stones jabbed through his socks. Holding the rifle, limping, he shook his head. Goddamn hunter, no orange on him, coming out of nowhere.
He reached whoever it was, curled in a ball. “You hurt?” He walked around to see the face. “Hey, an accident, what the fuck? This is pri
vate property, come up here, no orange on you, don’t say nothing.”
Then Lomak remembered it was not hunting season. He bent down. “Okay, now, let me think, how you doin’? Talk to me, where you hit?” He waited. “Where you from, around here? You know Schmidt?”
Nothing.
Standing quickly, he walked to the end of the truck and came back. Bad news, out of nowhere. He stared down. The man was dressed in brown pants and shirt. He was old in the face, with gray stubble, a John Deere cap still on his head. “Come on, pop, you ain’t hurt bad, talk to me.”
After a minute, he reached down and pushed the shoulder. “Aw fuck.” He pulled on the twill shirt and heard a breath, a sigh. The body seemed to deflate. He pulled hard this time, turning him over. Knees still folded, the man lay twisted at the waist, looking up. A stain with a hole in the shirt was spreading six inches above his belt. “What is the matter with you? Come up here, say nothing, fuck around, piss people off. How’m I supposed to know? You tell me.”
One goddamn thing after another.
Lars Nielson was stenciled on the shirt pocket. That was the neighbor up the road, where Rohmer had gone for the outboard. A perfect shot, absolutely through the heart. It was an accident, but…in some way, it was like the rifle had known something. Missed the deer, but was still hunting. Like the rifle knew the first two rounds had to clear the rifle barrel before the killshot.
He stood. So, when it was fired, the killshot—whatever was out there…there you go. A done deal. He looked around and listened. Trees, birds. No one was coming. What you could do, you could pull it out in the woods, behind the shed. Then cover it with leaves. Like they did in Westerns. Cover your tracks with a branch. Broom out the footprints, check everything for blood and heel marks.
He looked to the plane, the utility boat, and remembered what he was supposed to do. Everything was on him, all the shit details. He looked down again at the body. Next to the man’s outstretched right hand lay envelopes and fliers, and a shrink-wrapped sample of toothpaste. Bringing Schmidt his mail. Colgate Tartar Control.
He set the Remington against the truck, reached down and grabbed the free hand. He began pulling Nielson off the gravel. When he reached the trees, he backpedaled faster. It was easier now, over matted needles. They pricked his stocking feet, and as Lomak dragged, he again saw himself inside, sighting the rifle. His right hand was bandaged, the gauze pink where the wound had soaked through. It was tender and swollen, so his trigger was stiff.
Exactly, he thought, dragging the body. That’s why you pulled and didn’t squeeze. With an injured, stiff hand, what could he do? Something was always getting in the way.
Always because of women.
By four-thirty, Heather had finished with the lounge. She collected her sponges and roll of paper towels, then looked around approvingly. “You can tell men cleaned it,” she said. “It was filthy. I’ll give the upstairs bath a quicky once-over.” She grabbed the Glass Plus off the dining table and bumped down the passageway.
“Washing windows,” Brenda whispered. “It’s a boat, for God’s sake.”
Marion shook her head. They were working side by side in the galley. The stern door slapped shut.
“To her, it’s home,” Marion said. “I bet she follows Brian around with a Dust Buster.”
“I thought she was loosening up.”
“Oh, she is. You accomplished great things out there. Try this.” Marion raised a spoon of cocktail sauce.
Brenda tasted. “More horseradish.”
Arranged on the counter were lowball glasses that would serve for the shrimp cocktail. Brenda had baked the potatoes, dug them out and mashed them with grated cheddar and chopped onion. She began stuffing the skins.
“You mean Heather’s back in familiar territory,” she said. “Back in control.”
“Something like that. Back where she feels safe.”
“She told me she was agoraphobic.”
“That may be true. Or borderline. I don’t think she and Brian go anywhere. If it is true, it took real courage for her to make this trip.” Marion added more horseradish to her sauce. She stirred and tried it. “Okay, all systems go. Your potatoes look terrific. I’m going up to change. I’ll try to disarm Heather of her bucket.”
“What’s it going to be? The Balenciaga, or the Halston?”
“The L.L.Bean.” Marion rinsed her hands and tore off paper toweling. “This is working for me, too. I’ve had only six urges to call Carrie since lunch. Four more days may do the trick.”
“I thought you might’ve patched through by radio while we were gone.”
“I did think of it. Carrie’s actually level-headed, but her friend Brittany? Very devious. I think the mother’s getting ready to dump husband number two. She was reassuring on the phone. I’ve met her, but not before leaving. Do you think they could’ve pulled a fast one? Mommy’s off somewhere, and they’re playing Risky Business?”
“Don’t do it, Mar. Leave it.”
“I know, I know.”
Marion finished wiping her hands and dropped the towel in the basket under the sink. “I guess that does it.” She stepped around Brenda and crossed to the end of the counter. The liquor bottles and an ice bucket waited with more glasses. She dropped ice into a tumbler, got the unopened bottle of Cutty Sark and began working off the cap. “You?”
“Later.”
“It must be the air out here,” Marion said, pouring. “I drank two big vodka tonics in the hot tub. To avoid patching a call to Carrie. That much to drink usually puts me away, but I hardly felt a thing.”
Brenda smiled and pressed another dollop of potato into its jacket. “You boiled it off. You can keep watch up there, and tell us when they’re coming.”
Marion topped up her drink with water and left. A minute later, the potatoes were ready to go. Brenda arranged them on a cookie sheet for second baking. Finished, she looked to the bow. Outside the glass door wall, Sonny lay sprawled on one of the chaises, dirty paws over the side. He was looking at her, sad-eyed and exiled with a bowl of Alpo.
The stern door opened and banged shut. “My work detail’s finished,” Tina called. “Time for the rum ration.” She rolled down the passage and came to a stop. “I found a hose and swabbed the deck. Heather’s topside, washing chairs.”
“One rum ration coming up.” Brenda stepped into the galley. “What’s your poison?”
“Do I see maraschino cherries? Sweet vermouth? Scotch? I’d like a Rob Roy with a cherry.” She waved toward the dog. “And a beer chaser for the guy in the brig.”
“Sonny drinks beer?”
“Bert corrupted him. When they watched football, Bert would drink beer and pour some in a bowl. Sonny’s a regular guy now.”
Brenda began mixing the Rob Roy. “Marion thinks Heather’s borderline phobic. About leaving the house.” She handed the drink to Tina and got out a beer. “Is that true?”
“Thank you.” Tina sipped. “I think it’s possible. She gets nervous when we go out for a walk. Riding in cars doesn’t seem a problem. Or hockey rinks.”
Brenda found a bowl and crossed to the door wall. The dog jumped from the chaise, tail working as she opened the bottle and poured. When she cracked the panel, Sonny’s nose shoved through. She reached through, set down the bowl and closed the door. The dog stared at her.
“I spoil him rotten,” Tina said. “He’s not used to limits.”
“So I see. Go on—” Brenda motioned before the glass. The dog looked down and began drinking. “Does he get tight?”
“He snores. By the fourth quarter, they’d have a duet going. It’s the sort of thing I miss most.” Tina sipped her drink. “This is just right, thank you. My doctor tells me no, but he tells me lots of things. Diet, exercise. Vitamin supplements. He can’t do a damned thing for me, but soldiers on in the most professional way. Aren’t you drinking?”
“Later,” Brenda said. “I operate on one kidney. A little wine, and I start wearing lamp shades.”
“I see.” Tina held the drink in her lap. “Does it scare you, having just the one?”
“Not now. These days, it works something like the poem we read. You have to know how good things are out there. Having one kidney helps keep me on my toes a little more. Smelling the peonies. Like you remembering your husband. The funny, touching things, like snoring a duet with the dog. I think losing a kidney made me more aware that way.”
Tina drank and held the glass in her palm. “I’m sorry you live in Michigan.”
“Milwaukee’s not so far.”
“It isn’t, is it?”
“Not at all.”
◆◆◆◆◆
Ten minutes later Brenda was topside, going through her duffle bag when Marion called “They’re here!”
She looked out and saw the boat coming. The weather had held, still cloudless. The sun was lower now, but dazzlingly bright on the water.
She turned back to her bag, wondering what Charlie Schmidt liked seeing houseboat women wear. No, better to go with what she liked. Green was always good with her eyes and hair, but just now that struck her as trying too hard. She got out her black cashmere turtleneck, pulled it on, then looked at herself in the mirror above the cabin’s tin sink.
She smiled at herself, amused by the foolishness of her interest in Charlie Schmidt. Still, she was pleased with the color in her face, cheekbones other women said they envied. She hoped he wouldn’t notice how pointy and narrow her nose was. It had been “done” twice in high school, when she had hated everything about herself.
She folded down the sweater’s neck, stepped quickly through the passage and out onto the deck. Marion was at the railing, watching the boat approach. Charlie was standing at the wheel, his buddy next to him. The friend wore a khaki hat, and had a beard. He looked the part of someone who flew his own plane. Both men waved, and as they neared, Charlie cut the engine. Brenda and Marion moved to the ladder and went down. Heather and Tina came out as the boat nosed forward.
“Hi there,” Marion called. “Right on time.”
Deep North (A Brenda Contay Novel Of Suspense Book 2) Page 12