“He wants me dead pretty bad.”
“Half a million is nothing to Lou. It gets worse, because it’s not just a hit, Cork. It’s a bounty. It’s open season on you. Whoever gets to you first.”
“If I’m hit, Lou Jacoby’s the guy the cops will look at.”
“He’s old. He’s lost everything. Probably in his thinking, his life’s over. He goes to jail or even to death row, big deal. I know Lou. He won’t hesitate to do what he feels he has to. That includes collateral damage, Cork.”
“My family?”
“Or whoever happens to be with you at the time. Half a million dollars is a lot of incentive not to be neat.”
“What if we brought in the police, Adam Gabriel, say, and NORTAF?”
“What can they do until somebody actually tries something? You know how that goes. Even if they wanted to help, they can’t watch your back twenty-four/seven. And we both know there are badges up here on the Jacoby payroll. You deal with them and everything gets funneled right back to Lou.
“I worked a case in New Jersey. We had a witness sequestered in a farmhouse outside Passaic. Somebody-a badge, we suspected-leaked the location. The place got hit with three rocket-propelled grenades. Killed the witness and two federal agents. You don’t want that to happen to your family.” She looked grim and sorry. “You need to find a safe place to disappear for a couple of days.”
A flare of anger shot through Cork, seemed to explode in his brain. He slammed his fist into the dashboard. “I’m not running, Dina. I’ll talk to Lou Jacoby, pound a little sense into that old man if necessary.”
“You barge in, you really think he’d back down? Hell, he’d probably shoot you himself.” She put a hand gently on his arm and spoke calmly. “Right now you need to back off. Let us gather enough evidence to convince Lou to listen to reason. With Ed Larson working his end and me here, we’ll have what we need in a couple of days, I promise.”
“A lot of homicides never get solved.”
“A lot of homicides don’t have me working the case.”
He knew she was right, knew that an irrational act in response to another irrational act usually spelled tragedy.
“A couple of days, Cork, that’s all.”
In the dark inside the Civic, he stared into her eyes.
“Trust me,” she said.
Her cell phone chirped. She looked at the display. “It’s coming from the duplex.” She answered. “Yeah?” A few seconds and she said, “Thanks,” and broke the connection. “Shit.”
“What?”
“The Malibu’s on the move.”
Behind them, a car screamed into the alley. Its headlights blasted over them. Dina jammed the Civic into gear and shot off with a squeal. The car was far more powerful than it looked, and Cork figured she had customized the engine, added muscle. She hit the street at the other end, took a hard right. Cork looked back as the black Malibu fishtailed into sight. Dina cut up side streets and blazed down alleyways. She worked gradually east, putting distance between them and the car in pursuit. Finally she skidded to a stop in a driveway behind a high hedge. She killed the engine and the headlights. They sat a moment and the Malibu shot past, roaring into the dark at the far end of the street.
“You need to disappear and you need to do it now,” she said.
“Where?”
“Pick a direction and go. Do you have any money?”
“Not much.”
“Here.” She reached under the dash and something clicked. A small compartment popped open next to the glove box. She reached in and pulled out a stack of bills. “There’s twelve hundred. I keep it for emergencies. Take it. And take this, too.” She reached down, pulled up the cuff of her pants, removed her. 32 Beretta from the ankle holster, and handed it to Cork.
“I can’t even say good-bye to my family?”
“The choice is yours, but I think it’s risky. Obviously the guys in the Malibu weren’t alone. Somebody tipped them off that you were in the alley. No telling how many people are on you or where they are. I’ll let Jo know what’s going on.”
He gave a nod and they were both quiet.
Dina sat back with a tired sigh. “Lou, Eddie, Phillip, Gabriella, Tony. My God, what you must think of us Jews.”
“It’s got nothing to do with religion or culture. It’s just a screwed-up family. You find those everywhere. Irish Catholics, Ojibwe-hell, probably even among the Bushmen of the Kalahari.”
At the end of the block, the black Malibu crept into view like a panther stalking its prey.
“I’ll lead them on a merry chase,” Dina said. “You make yourself scarce.”
“Once again you come to my rescue.”
“I’m a sucker for a pretty face. Get going.”
He opened the door, slid out.
“You have my number. Let me know where you end up. Good luck, Cork.”
Dina backed from the drive and turned on the headlights. As soon as the Malibu squealed in her direction, she shot off. Cork hunkered in the dark of the hedge while the Malibu sped past. He waited until the sound of the two engines had faded into the distance before he walked to the street.
Dawn seemed far away. At that moment, everything did.
EPILOGUE
A solitary two-lane highway splits the marsh. To the right and left, brittle reeds disappear into a dingy, low-hanging mist. A fragile light falls over the scene, the day almost breaking. The marsh is silent. The birds have fled south or been killed by the virus, or perhaps it’s something about the place itself that inhibits their song, for there is the feel of abandonment here, of death, like an old battlefield or a cemetery.
Far to the west rises the dark square of a barn wall and the slope of a roof. It seems like an ark floating on a dun-colored sea. East there is nothing but the empty slate sky and the reluctant dawn.
He walks in his windbreaker with his shoulders hunched, each breath of cold air a reminder that autumn is making its last stand. He knows what will follow is a killing season.
He hears the rattle long before the mist around him begins to glow from the headlights, and then the truck passes, an old pickup, the bed fitted with rickety slat-board sides. Thirty yards beyond him the brake lights flash. The truck slows, stops. As he approaches, he sees that the bed is filled with feed sacks stacked half a dozen high in neat rows, and a contraption of wood and metal with gears and a long handle whose purpose is unknown to him. He opens the door. The smell of manure greets him.
“Hop in.” The man at the wheel beckons. He’s in overalls and his boots are caked. “Where you going?”
“North,” he says as he climbs in and slams the door.
“Whereabouts?”
“Just north.”
“Big place, that.” The man grins in a friendly way and gears into the mist.
In a moment, the truck is lost, heading north, which is indeed a big place, but not big enough.
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Document creation date: 26.10.2011
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Mercy Falls co-5 Page 34