Shadow Girl

by Gerry Schmitt

  “Pizza,” she called out.

  Poppy came running in from the living room, all floppy pink sweatshirt, matching tights, and Ugg boots. “Mommy, what’s a paternity test?”

  Afton whirled on her. “What’d you say? What on earth are you kids watching in there?” She heard a snicker from Tess and stuck her head around the corner. “Turn that thing off.”

  Tess grabbed the remote control and turned off the TV, then came wandering into the kitchen. “Are you going to tell her, Mom?”

  “No,” Afton said. “And I don’t want you guys thinking about that kind of stuff, okay? Now help yourself to some pizza before it gets cold. Salad, too. Take lots.”

  “Can I eat in front of the TV?” Poppy asked.

  “Yes, you may,” Afton said. “In fact, we all can. But only if you don’t turn that program back on.”

  “It’s a Jerry Springer rerun,” Tess said helpfully.

  “Right. Well, we’ll find something else to watch. Just never mind about him,” Afton said.

  “Is that what you call trash TV?” Tess asked.

  “Because the audience jumps up and trashes the place?” Poppy asked.

  Afton slid the cheese pizza toward her. “Something like that, yes.”

  Tess had grabbed a piece of pizza and was folding it origami-like. “I can’t wait for tomorrow,” she said.

  “For the Jog Your Dog walk?” Afton asked.

  Tess nodded. “Bonaparte’s all excited about going, too.” She broke off a piece of crust and fed it to Bonaparte, who snapped it up immediately.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t feed pizza to the dog,” Afton said.

  “That’s okay,” Poppy said in a matter-of-fact tone. “He’ll walk it off tomorrow.”

  • • •

  ACROSS town, Terrell was sitting in her silver Mercedes, accompanied by Lester Snell. She had parked down the block from her mother’s home, in front of a Frank Lloyd Wright–looking house that some advertising big shot had recently purchased. The night was full-on dark with a lopsided yellow moon glistening through bare treetops.

  “You think she’s home?” Snell asked.

  “Of course she’s home,” Terrell said. She was gripping the steering wheel tightly as she gazed in the direction of her house. Then, in a crabby voice, said, “Where did you think she’d be? Out at some nightclub on the dance floor? Shaking her moneymaker? She’s been a widow for, like, two seconds, for Christ’s sake. Give her a break.”

  “Okay,” Snell said. “Awright.” He was sufficiently cowed. Terrell had a way of making him feel like he’d just driven in from the farm and been kicked off the proverbial turnip truck.

  “She’ll be feeling sorry for herself and drinking,” Terrell said in a more measured, almost analytic tone. “She’ll have raided the wine cellar and be in her bedroom sipping the good stuff. Probably a Château Latour or maybe even a Margaux.”

  “The good stuff,” Snell repeated, even though he had no idea what Terrell was talking about. Good stuff to him was booze that came in 1.75-liter bottles from the Liquor Mega-Store.

  “I can be in and out in about five seconds.”

  “You have to be careful,” Snell said.

  “I will.”

  For the last few hours, Terrell had been formulating a plan. Now that she was actually working through the final details, she realized the idea had been there all along, hunkered inside her brain for the past couple of days like some kind of cunning, slavering beast. Ever since she’d found the papers in Leland Odin’s desk.

  Her idea was daring—it was huge with a capital H—and once she’d become fixated on it, there was nothing she could do. She couldn’t turn it off, she couldn’t just stuff her idea away somewhere. No, she was physically itching for this to work, inexorably drawn to it like the mongoose to the cobra.

  The next step, of course, had been to explain as much as she could to Snell. She needed his buy-in. Most of all, she needed his muscle and his truck. She’d gotten Snell warmed up to the point where he’d agreed that it was a very cool idea, a monumental plan, if what she’d told him was really true. That’s if they weren’t caught and arrested first.

  “Okay, you wait right here and I’ll dash in.” Terrell opened the driver’s side door and slid out from behind the wheel. “Won’t be a minute.”

  “Be careful,” Snell whispered. But Terrell’s mind was resolutely made up and she was already running lightly down the street.

  43

  THE faint sound of church bells echoed through the thick stone walls of the casket factory.

  “Sunday,” Hack said to nobody in particular. “Time to go to meetin’.” He stretched, yawned, and scratched his furry stomach where his T-shirt rode up. It had been a long time since he’d set foot inside a church. He just didn’t have use for it anymore. Too much Bible thumping and preaching about don’t do this and don’t do that. Admonitions to follow the Ten Commandments.

  Hack figured he’d already broken every one of the commandments in some way, shape, or form. Except for the one about false idols. He wasn’t completely sure what that was all about, what exactly constituted a false idol. Maybe like . . . those kids who sang on TV?

  Over in the corner, the noodles were cooking again, the aroma drifting through the old factory. Hack thought the crap bubbling in the pot smelled like somebody was boiling an old tennis shoe. Still, it was better than breathing the stink of mouse poop.

  Twenty minutes later, everyone having eaten and dressed, Hack rounded up the gang for what he thought of as a serious pep talk. The three Thai guys who’d jetted in yesterday—Chati, Somsak, and the youthful Prasong—didn’t speak any English, so Narong had to translate everything for them. Hack would say a couple of sentences, then Narong would repeat everything in Thai. It was slow going, and Hack began to feel like he was some kind of delegate at the freaking UN.

  Still, Hack was able to make his message clear. They were all going to drive over to the FTZ site near Highway 280 and Como Avenue. Then, once they made their pickup—Hack didn’t say if they managed to make their pickup; he was far more optimistic than that—they would rendezvous back here at the casket factory and check in with Mom Chao Cherry. Physically show her the dope. Then they’d cool their heels and, when evening came, make the final push to Detroit. The new Thai guys particularly liked the part where Hack told them the truck wouldn’t be armored, but they would. They were extremely enthusiastic at the idea of carrying guns. They thought it was very American.

  Hack was pleased that they were finally going to abandon the old casket factory. It had served them well, but he had no illusion that, given enough time, they wouldn’t be discovered. Hell, he knew the cops were already sniffing at their trail, probably stringing together a few clues. But in a couple of hours they’d all be long gone. Vanished.

  Hack also knew that Mom Chao Cherry was a crazy old bat who would push her luck and take chances. She still thought she was back in Bangkok, where she could lift a dainty hand and servants would scurry to make things happen. She had no idea how many law enforcement agencies could get involved here in America, and especially right here in the Twin Cities. The Minneapolis Police, Saint Paul Police, ATF, BCA. To say nothing of the various sheriff’s departments, DEA, and FBI.

  Yup, it was definitely time to get the hell out of Dodge.

  • • •

  MOM Chao Cherry watched the industrial garage door rumble up and the truck full of men pull out. Then the door closed, clanking like chains in a dungeon, and she was alone. She grabbed a cup of tea and hurried upstairs to her second-floor room—must have been a manager’s office or something; there was still a desk and an old, rusted fan—and lit her candles. She’d arranged them on a wooden box along with a number of tiny jade statues. Satisfied that she had made a heartfelt appeal to the spirits as well as her dead husband’s ancestors, she lit two sticks of sandalwood incense to seal the deal.

  Good. Her men were en route and soon they would retrieve her stolen merchand
ise. All this had been so foolish, she thought. Foolish for the old man to have spread around his bribes and stolen her goods. If he’d left her alone, if he’d even tried to buy from her, many lives would have been spared. Retribution wouldn’t have been so swift and lethal. On the other hand, Mom Chao Cherry had long since realized that human lives were not all that consequential. Not in her world anyway.

  44

  HACK was in a good mood as he drove along. In fact, he was feeling so upbeat that he cranked up the radio, and when Rod Stewart came on, singing “Maggie May,” he sang right along with good old Rod. Even did a little seat dancing.

  “This is popular music?” Narong asked him.

  “Kind of a golden oldie,” Hack said. He lit a cigarette and added, “I can’t tolerate the shit people listen to today. All those whiny teenage girls with their lovesick songs. Plus, the dumb broads need to use Auto-Tune because they can’t carry a tune. It’s a crying shame that the music industry has deteriorated so badly.”

  “A crying shame,” Narong said while Chati, Somsak, and Prasong just nodded.

  Hack pointed the truck up Highway 280, burned past the Como exit, and then hung a left on Broadway. They were in a prime industrial area now. Lots of warehouses, truck docks, shippers, and rigging services, and, of course, the Mid-City Industrial Park, where the FTZ was located.

  “Almost there,” Hack said. For some reason he’d begun to feel nervous. Then again, it was probably just pregame jitters. Hadn’t he felt a gut full of apprehension when he and his buddy Duane Sliezak had ripped off that truckload of sheetrock over in Cloquet? Sure, he had. And look how fine that had turned out. They drove the damn stuff out to South Dakota and sold the entire lot to some building-materials wholesaler who didn’t care if the shipment was lukewarm or roaring hot.

  “Okay,” Hack said. He took a final puff on his cigarette and then stubbed it out. He wished he could enjoy a quick toot of coke, but too much was at stake right now. “When we get to the FTZ, everybody stays right here in the damn van and plays dumb, okay?” He glanced over his shoulder, saw the blank faces of the three Thai men, and said, “Jeez, what am I saying? You guys are dumb.”

  “What about me?” Narong asked.

  “You don’t say or do nothin’,” Hack said. “Let me talk to the guys at the gate. I’ll show them the paperwork and handle the negotiation.”

  “Of course,” Narong said. He was excited, too. Happy to be finally picking up Mom Chao Cherry’s merchandise. Happy to get this strange American ordeal over and done with.

  Hack slowed the truck, turned a corner, and headed down a narrow street lined with large gray warehouses. The gate was just ahead, a huge rolling contraption that was gaping open at the moment. A battered pickup truck with a camper on back was just rolling through. Hack eased over to the side of the road to give the truck some room. He turned slightly in his seat to watch it go by and was stunned by what he saw.

  “What the hell?” Hack squawked.

  The sun was lasering down on the pickup’s windshield just right, perfectly illuminating the faces of the two people who were sitting in the front cab.

  Holy crap!

  Hack’s brain practically exploded with shock. Was he seeing this correctly? Wasn’t that the chick he’d just been staring at—kind of fantasizing about—at Leland Odin’s funeral? Yes, it was!

  Hack’s mouth hung open as the truck continued past them and accelerated around the corner.

  Now his frantic brain jumped into overdrive.

  That’s Leland Odin’s daughter or stepdaughter or whatever the hell she is!

  He’d recognize that girl anywhere . . . with her snooty blond good looks.

  But why the hell has she popped up here? Here of all places!

  Unless . . .

  Oh shit! A double-cross? A really inside-inside job?

  Hack made a snap judgment, what he later thought of as a genuinely brilliant decision.

  “Hang on, boyo,” Hack said to Narong. He pulled the truck forward, then lurched into a hasty K-turn.

  “What’s wrong?” Narong cried. He was confused and alarmed by this turn of events. “Why are we not going in? What about the paperwork? What about the merchandise?”

  “We gotta regroup,” Hack said. Even though he had the truck turned around by now, he was feeling unsettled, nervous about having his game plan changed so abruptly.

  Narong slapped a hand hard on Hack’s shoulder. “What are you doing? We must go back and pick up the goods,” he practically shouted. “Now.”

  Hack shook his head as he tromped down on the accelerator. “Somebody just beat us to it,” Hack said.

  “What!” Narong rasped. “Someone stole our shipment?”

  Hack continued to accelerate, chasing after the old pickup. “Did you see the truck that came out the gate and whipped past us? The one with the camper on back that’s just up ahead of us?”

  “What? What?” Narong said. He was still playing catch-up.

  “That was Leland Odin’s daughter in there along with some other asshole.”

  Now Narong understood. “They took our drugs?” He slapped a hand down on the dashboard, practically in full-blown panic mode.

  “They sure as hell did,” Hack said.

  “Then what . . . ?”

  Hack was speeding back up Broadway, bumping over railroad tracks and an ugly mess of potholes. “That’s them up ahead. We’re going to follow them.”

  “Follow them,” Narong repeated.

  “It won’t be difficult,” Hack said. He was beginning to wrap his mind around this shift in the program. “And maybe . . . maybe if all we have to do is tail those jerks, it might even be easier to hit the jackpot.”

  • • •

  IT was a piece of cake for Hack to follow along behind the daughter’s piece-of-shit truck. Whoever was driving was a fairly cautious driver and rarely broke fifty miles an hour, even when they hit the I-94 freeway. From there it was just a matter of tailing the truck and staying a few cars back in line. It got even easier when the truck turned off onto Dale Street and wended its way through a warren of streets. They twisted and turned, driving through a neighborhood that looked sleepy and quiet. When they passed a fancy church with a large green copper onion dome, Hack wondered if everyone might be crowded inside, heads bowed and praying for . . . what? World peace? A much improved baseball team? Winning the lottery?

  Then they turned down a dumpy street and, fifty yards ahead, Hack saw the pickup truck’s brake lights flare red. He eased off the gas and coasted over to the curb. From there they all watched as the pickup truck hooked a right and humped down a narrow driveway, where it rocked to a stop behind a shabby little house.

  “Looks like we’re in business,” Hack said.

  They watched as two people, a man and a woman, climbed out of the truck and quickly disappeared inside the house.

  “That’s her,” Hack said, his wide eyes reflecting his amazement. “That’s the girl.” He shook his head. “Ain’t that something? Leland Odin’s own daughter stealing from her dead old man.”

  “He stole from us,” Narong said bitterly.

  “I guess it all comes full circle,” Hack said. “Okay, everybody, look sharp now and grab those guns. It’s time to go a-knockin’ and get this party rockin’.” Then, as an aside to Narong, he said, “That probably doesn’t translate into Thai all that well. Better just tell your guys to follow behind us, keep their weapons hidden, and for god’s sake, don’t make any stupid mistakes and shoot us.”

  Narong gave his instructions as Hack goosed his truck forward and stopped in front of the dingy house. Then they all piled out and powered their way to the front door.

  • • •

  HACK and his merry band of men didn’t go a-knockin’ at all. Instead, they kicked the front door with such force that they shattered one of the hinges and sent the door crashing down into the living room.

  Terrell and Snell were standing next to an old pea-green sofa, shucking
off their coats, when the men scrambled over the fallen door and burst in on them.

  Terrell screamed loud enough to wake the dead. Snell, with a stupid-surprised look on his face, said, “You can’t . . .” and never got a chance to finish his sentence. Hack bounded toward Snell, punched him hard on the jaw, and bounced him backward onto the sofa.

  Terrell waved her arms wildly and shrieked again, her voice rising from a high C into operatic territory.

  Hack spun around and backhanded Terrell hard across the mouth. Then he pushed her down onto the sofa, where she cowered next to Snell.

  “Shut up!” Hack barked. “Just shut the freak up.” He pointed his gun directly at Terrell and waggled it in a menacing gesture. “That means you, rich bitch. Open your piehole to make one single peep and, so help me God, I’ll put a bullet in your brain.”

  Eyes big as saucers, Terrell gulped down what was probably going to be a string of epithets. She stared at Hack, who looked like he was deadly serious, and then looked past him, where four Asian men pointed guns at her.

  “Okay,” she croaked. “Okay.”

  “I knew it,” Snell said in a desperate-sounding whisper. “I knew it was too good to be true.”

  Hack held out his hand. “Keys. Gimme the keys to your truck.”

  Snell handed them over.

  • • •

  HACK dashed through the house and out the kitchen door. He opened the pickup truck and did a hasty check within the camper. It was all there. Mom Chao Cherry’s drugs. Drugs that had been hijacked and fought over, and had been the cause of several murders. Now they were right here for the taking. All safe and sound.

  Back inside the house, Hack rummaged through the junk until he found a bunch of rope and a couple of bandanas. Then he had Narong’s men truss up Terrell and Snell like a couple of Thanksgiving turkeys. Once that was accomplished, Hack felt a little more confident. Now he could breathe. He’d shifted gears, snatched victory from the jaws of defeat, and made it all okay again.