The unpaved private road they’d taken was overgrown with weeds, unpaved and rough enough that four wheel drive was needed. They bounced and jolted for half a mile, going no faster than ten miles an hour, before reaching McGlade’s cabin just off of Lake Niboowin.
At first, Phin didn’t see it. The woods were dark, the house was brown and made of logs, blending almost seamlessly into the surrounding foliage. But his eyes caught the straight lines and right angles and it seemed to suddenly appear, like an image in one of those Magic Eye posters from the 90s. A ranch, a big one, rough-hewn log walls, no windows at all, peeling brown paint on the front door and garage door, no driveway, the grounds overgrown. It looked old, abandoned, and as unwelcome a cabin as Phin could imagine.
“Yuck,” Jack said, breaking a two hour silence.
“Maybe the inside is better.”
“Does Spoonward have any motels?”
They’d passed the town twenty minutes ago, and he hadn’t seen any. But in fairness, it had only taken a few seconds to drive by. There probably wasn’t much to see in a town of five hundred. Phin recalled a library, a bait shop, a small police station, and a sign for Walmart.
“Probably,” he said, erring on the side of optimism.
He parked, turned off the engine, and they got out. The air smelled fresh. Not the floral kind of fresh that companies bottled to spray on clothes or in rooms, but fresh like unspoiled nature. Cool and clean with notes of pine and lake.
On top of the house, stretching above the tree line, was a huge wind turbine on a steel tower, spinning silently in the breeze.
Dead leaves and fir branches crunched underfoot as he walked to the front door. Phin examined it, and saw stainless steel beneath the peeling paint. The lock and hinges were heavy-duty, and still had some shine to them. This wasn’t decrepit; just made to look that way.
He fished McGlade’s key from his pocket, and it turned easily in the deadbolt. The door was solid, surprisingly heavy, and as he opened it Phin was hit by a waft of must; that unique smell proving no one had been there in a while. He squinted into the darkness, then felt along the inside wall for a light switch.
It didn’t work.
Phin turned to tell Jack the electricity might be out, but didn’t see her.
His wife was gone.
That was when he heard the gunshot.
DEL RAY
Stop here,” Del Ray told the driver.
The bus pulled onto the shoulder and rolled to a stop next to a billboard for a Walmart. Del Ray pressed the walkie-talkie app on his cell.
“Team Alpha, go.”
He watched through the tinted glass window as his team exited the van that had parked behind him. Each wearing a DayGlo orange vest, the silkscreened Wisconsin Public Works logos on the backs made to look faded. One guy went to work with a jackhammer, ripping into the asphalt, while three others set up pylons and Detour signs.
Del Ray opened his laptop, using his cell’s WiFi hotspot. On Google Maps he checked the only other road leading into Spoonward, and then texted Team Beta.
ETA?
The reply came back within a few seconds.
5 mins.
Del Ray felt T-Nail’s eyes on him, from his seat in the rear of the bus. He purposely ignored the cripple; there was no need for scrutiny or lectures when this mission had been planned to the tiniest detail. They were riding with enough ordnance to take over a small country. Two buses, five vans, a dozen cars. Food, water, toiletries, and tents if it took longer than a single day. There was even a back-up plan if it all went to hell.
He texted Kangol, his number one lieutenant, who’d gone on ahead with Team Beta to deal with Spoonward’s pig situation.
ON SCHEDULE was the reply.
Then he gave Team Gamma a simple three word text:
START THE BURN.
They had enough combustibles to burn half the state down. And that was the plan; to use a forest fire as a distraction. Throughout history, many great generals used distractions. Not only did it draw attention away from the main goal, but it seriously taxed manpower.
Next he texted Hackqueem, leader of Team Zeta, no doubt the weakest link in this particular chain. It took over a minute for his soldier to respond.
Got delayed. On it.
Del Ray frowned at the response, and considered calling to get more details. But he didn’t want to look weak in front of T-Nail, so he let it slide. Best to deal with it later.
Finally, he texted his spotters, who had followed Jack and her husband to the cabin.
Pinned down came the reply.
“Why we stopped?” T-Nail said. Loud enough for the whole bus to hear.
Del chose his next words carefully. He couldn’t disrespect a general in front of the men. That would be insubordination, and gave T-Nail instant cause to retaliate. At the same time, these men were actually Del Ray’s men. At least they were up until last night when they assisted in T-Nail’s jackrabbit parole. Del didn’t want to look weak in front of them.
“Move along,” he called to the driver. Then he turned to T-Nail. “LTE hot spot connection problems. Works better when we’re stopped.”
He figured T-Nail didn’t know shit about cell phones or signal strength, so it was a subtle way to show the men how much of a dinosaur T-Nail was. Yeah, he was OG. But there was a reason there weren’t many original gangstas left; they went extinct.
The bus pulled back onto the highway, and Del Ray and T-Nail stared at each other.
Both refused to blink.
JACK
The sonic boom of rifle fire startled me, and I reflexively ducked. Whoever was shooting, they were close. I heard Phin yell out my name, and then he was sprinting toward me, a .45 in his hand, his face pinched in a grimace.
I held up a palm before he reached me, shaking my head.
“It’s okay,” I said as he came to a stop in front of me.
Three more gunshots rang out in the west, then another in the east. Phin stared at me like I’d told him two plus two equals eight.
“It’s hunting season. Remember?”
His cheeks puffed as he blew out a breath, and he flicked his safety and stuck the 1911 in the waistband of his jeans, against his back.
“Let’s check the house out,” Phin said.
I crossed my arms. “I want to go home.”
“We said we’d give this a try.”
“I changed my mind.”
Phin’s face remained impassive. I felt myself get angry because he didn’t get angry. I knew I was acting like a jerk. He knew I was acting like a jerk. But he didn’t react to it, which made me want to act like an even bigger jerk. I was aware of it happening, and I couldn’t stop myself.
“It’s a long drive back,” he said, his tone gentle. “Let’s spend the night here, we can leave in the morning.”
“We’re going now.”
Why wouldn’t he blow up at me? Was he made of stone?
“I know you’ve been feeling bad,” Phin said. “Michigan. Leaving police work. You aren’t happy, and you blame yourself. But I don’t blame you. You’re wounded. I’m sticking around until you heal.”
“What if I don’t heal?”
“I can’t fix you. Only you can. All I can do is be there when you do.”
“When did you become so whipped?”
Phin shook his head. “I’m not playing this game, Jack.” He turned around.
“That’s right. Walk away. Why finish something you started? You weren’t even there to see your daughter being born.”
When he looked back at me, I saw the steel in his eyes. The Phin I used to know. Ice cold and capable of anything. I knew I’d pressed the right button. That’s who I wanted to fight with. Not Mr. Understanding.
“I wasn’t there,” Phin said, lowering his voice, “because Harry and I were prisoners of a psychopath who took turns torturing us. And that wasn’t the first time your past came back to hurt me. The shit I’ve gone through to be with you—”
“So you’re saying I’m not worth it.”
“I’m saying that your old job, which is apparently the only thing that ever gave you a sense of self-worth, has hurt everyone you know.”
“Maybe you should just leave, Phin. You’re not man enough to be with me.”
“Man enough? Was Latham man enough? Was Alan? So far I’m the only one who has managed to survive a relationship with you. And my reward for sticking around and staying alive is you acting like a bitch.”
“So leave if I’m such a bitch.”
Phin stepped closer to me. His jaw clenched, and all that came to my mind was sex. How messed up was that? I was driving away the man I loved, and for some sick reason it was turning me on.
“I’m not going to leave, Jack. Because I’m not going to leave our daughter in the hands of someone so mentally unhinged.”
That cooled me off really quick. What might have been a cathartic argument went sour.
“You think I’m an unfit mother? You’re a bank robbing coke head, and I’m the bad parent?”
Phin clenched a fist, raised it, and punched a birch tree behind me. There was a thump! and yellow leaves fell onto us.
“You used to be a decent person,” he said, his tone even as blood dripped from his knuckles. “I know Michigan messed you up. I know these last few years haven’t been easy. But you won’t get counseling, you won’t take meds, and you aren’t getting better.”
“So leave,” I told him through clenched teeth.
“I’m not going to leave.”
“But that’s what you’re good at, isn’t it? Life gets hard, drop out. Go rob and steal and whore around and snort shit. That’s how you deal with things, remember?”
“Well, maybe if I did leave, I’d have a chance. Because anyone who gets close to you winds up dead.”
I blinked.
Shit. He was right.
Maybe I wasn’t just pushing him away because I felt bad about myself.
Maybe I was pushing him away to protect him.
I wondered what to say next, but Phin was already storming back toward the house.
An owl hooted.
Gunfire rang out in the distance.
I felt like crying, but I couldn’t remember how.
POLICE CHIEF SCHUYLER
John Schuyler frowned at the time. Officer Kinsel was twenty minutes late, and the later it got, the less time he’d have on the lake before sundown. His game fish of choice, the elusive muskellunge, had been biting. Musky would sometimes gorge themselves before the winter freeze, and Schuyler had caught two in the past week. Both were under regulation size. He was hoping to hook one last keeper of the season while it was still warm enough to do so. It had been an Indian summer, no snow yet, and every second Kinsel putzed around was a second Schuyler wasn’t throwing out a Suick, trying to entice a lunker to bite.
He tried the radio once more, got static, and spit some Copenhagen chaw juice into an empty Coke can on his desk. His secretary, an ancient woman named Mabel who’d been working there for longer than Schuyler’d been alive, had left an hour ago, and the station was empty and quiet. Tourist season, such as it was, had ended months ago. The rest of the year, their one jail cell remained mostly empty, except for the occasional local DUI. The staties took care of major accidents and highway problems, DNR took care of hunting and fishing, the county took care of anything else that might crop up, and Schuyler and his staff binged on Netflix, and liked it that way. Spoonward was a small, peaceful town where everyone knew everyone, and the last violent crime they’d had was back in 1953 during a particularly harsh winter. Ms. Michele Sewell killed her husband, Robert, with a shotgun while he slept, claiming she couldn’t last one more night in a tiny, snowbound cabin with someone who snored like, to quote the murderess, “a chainsaw cutting asphalt.” She was committed to an institution, where it is said she lived out the remainder of her life crocheting doilies.
That was Spoonward. Even murder had sort of a homey, feel-good tint to it. So it was of great surprise to Chief Schuyler when three African American youths came into his office wielding firearms.
“I’m sure whatever the problem is, we can work something out,” Schuyler told them, hands over his head. They didn’t have to disarm him, because he didn’t wear a pistol. He wondered if they were drunk or high. He recognized gang colors on their clothes. Probably drove down from Duluth.
“How many cops in this hick town?”
“Three, plus Mabel. She’s the secretary.”
“Old bitch with glasses?”
“She wears bifocals,” Schuyler said. “But she’s only sixty. And she’s not a bitch.”
“Already got her,” the guy said. “And that fat one.”
“Officer Kinsel?”
“Apparently you don’t need to pass a physical to be a pig up here.”
“What do you mean you got them?”
The youth didn’t answer. He looked to be still in his teens, but he had old eyes. Schuyler’s brother, Dave, had eyes like that when he’d gotten back from Desert Storm. Dave had seen things, done things, and wound up not being able to live with himself. He ended it all in the garage with the Chevy on and the door closed.
“Where’s the last cop?” the kid said. “You said there were three.”
Schuyler thought about his other officer, Barbara Knowles. She lived with her disabled brother, who made fishing lures that looked like swimming muskrats.
“It was just three,” Schuyler said. “Me, Mabel, and Kinsel. What happened to them?”
The youth nodded, and the other two grabbed Schuyler’s arms, holding him steady. Then he reached into his baggy pants and took out a pair of tin snips.
“We gonna see how many fingers you willing to lose before you tell the truth.”
It took eight fingers.
“You lasted longer than I thought,” the kid said. “I’ll tell Officer Knowles you tried.”
Then he put a bullet in Schuyler’s head.
PHIN
Using the tactical penlight on his keychain, Phin pushed open the ridiculously heavy door and ventured into the dark house, searching for a fuse box. He found the circuit breaker panel on a wall in the kitchen and switched on the power.
Without waiting for Jack, Phin took a tour.
In typical Harry McGlade fashion, the cabin was ridiculous. Though the exterior cleverly imitated the appearance of an old, unused house, the inside was opulent and over-furnished, with technology and security to spare.
Four bedrooms, three and a half baths, each with a urinal.
A sprinkler system to prevent fires.
A stockroom with enough non-perishable food to feed two people for a year.
A video surveillance room, with twelve monitors each serving a dedicated camera, covering the perimeter and every entryway.
A mini infirmary, with a padded examination table and enough drugs and medication for an army regiment.
A pool table, foosball, a Playboy pinball machine, five giant televisions, an extensive Blu-ray library, a beer and wine cellar, a full bar, and a Jacuzzi.
“Take a look at this,” Jack said.
Phin followed her voice, and ended up in a room at the end of a hallway. He whistled. Firearms lined every wall, floor to ceiling. Revolvers, semiautomatics, rifles, shotguns, machine guns, ammo by the crate.
“Is that a flamethrower?” Phin asked. The tank had X15 stenciled on the side.
“Yeah.”
“That’s legal?”
“Flamethrowers aren’t considered firearms, so they aren’t regulated. No license or BTFA or NFA permit needed.”
“Useful if you want to roast marshmallows from fifty feet away.”
“I doubt that was Harry’s intention when he bought it.”
“And what the hell is that?” Phin pointed to something resembling a shotgun, except it was over three meters long. “That can’t be real.”
“It’s a punt gun,” Jack said. “They used them at the tu
rn of the century for hunting ducks. One shot can take out a whole flock.”
“What does it fire? Cannon balls?”
“A two gauge shell.” Jack pointed her chin at a box of ammo. Phin had originally thought it was a case of antique flashlights, and they looked so old he doubted they’d even still fire. Each shell was a foot long, silver, and wide as a soda can. Phin sometimes wondered if Harry was overcompensating for something.
“Dinner?” he asked.
“I guess.”
Phin reached for her hand. She pulled away.
“Jack…”
“Don’t.”
“This is why we came here. To figure things out.”
“I’m tired. Let’s eat and watch a movie.”
He searched her eyes. “It’s like I’m watching you drown, and can’t do anything to help.”
Jack held his stare. “Then just let me drown.”
“You’re hurting the woman I love.”
“Phin, honestly, I’m not sure the woman you love exists anymore.”
“What happened to you and me against the world?”
“I never liked that song.”
“It’s not about the song, Jack. It’s about us.”
“Let’s just eat and talk tomorrow, okay?”
He resisted the urge to touch her again, and said, “Okay. I’ll grab some food from storage. I think I can make a decent chili from what I saw in there.”
Phin walked off.
Took a hit of cocaine.
Gathered up some dehydrated meat, beans, and assorted cans of tomatoes, onions, celery, a brick of Velveeta, and some corn chips.
Wondered why anyone, even a doomsday prepper stockpiling for some imagined nuclear Armageddon, would buy four hundred cans of Chef Boyardee lasagna. Phin never liked it as a kid; it always reminded him of brains. And what was up with the two cases of ketchup?
Knowing Harry, he probably filled a bathtub with the stuff for some kinky sex thing.
Phin snorted more coke, then went into the kitchen to look for spices, trying and failing to forget about the asshole he’d married.
Rum Runner - A Thriller (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries Book 9) Page 7