Stinking Rich

by Rob Brunet

  “So?”

  Skeritt paused before saying, “Guilty. It’s the only thing I could think of at the time.”

  “Thank you,” Danny said.

  “Pleasure.”

  The sound of the houseboat’s motor echoed up the hill. As they stepped into the clearing, they set the canoe down next to the pile of cedar boughs to take a breather. Danny spoke again. “Something else you said back there that’s buggin’ me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You weren’t surprised about Judy giving Ernie massages. You made some comment.”

  “Wasn’t that.”

  “What do you mean, ‘wasn’t that?’ Do you know something I don’t? Something I should know?”

  “Maybe,” Skeritt answered.

  “Did Ernie tell you something? Was she—”

  “Nothing like that. Not that I know, anyway.”

  “Then what?”

  They could hear the pontoons creak across a couple of half-submerged logs as the houseboat struggled to exit the cove. Danny prayed the big Indian would keep Judy safe.

  “Geez, Danny, haven’t you ever wondered why Ernie would stick his neck out for you, the way he did? Did you really think he liked your mother’s lasagna that much?”

  “It crossed my mind, a couple times, yeah. But like you said, you were all such great friends, from way back at the sawmill and all.”

  Skeritt shook his head slowly. “Well, the stupid bastard’s dead now, so I guess it’s up to me. I never really agreed with the man, anyway, but it was his life, his story to tell. And your mother, well, I know she agrees with me, even if she doesn’t have the courage to tell you herself.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Danny,” Skeritt said, “Ernie was your father.”

  Perko spotted the fire first.

  “That’s got to be it,” he said.

  Hawk pointed the bow at the flickering smudge of orange light and pressed the throttle to full. No one spoke. With the engine noise and the wind whipping through the open vinyl flaps, conversation would have been impossible anyway.

  A dark scowl settled on Perko’s forehead and he flexed his knuckles, smelling blood. Justice. Money or not, the punk was dead meat. And his tool sidekick for good measure, he thought, shooting a glare at Terry. As for Mongoose, that was a bit trickier: if they didn’t find the money with the punk on the island, Mongoose clearly had Hawk’s support to deal with Perko. On the other hand, if the money was there—and if Mongoose should somehow have a little nautical accident before they arrived—Perko might still be able to talk Hawk into a little fifty-fifty split. Turning to where the not-so-jolly-green-biker was clenching his stomach, Perko grinned and said, “Here, buddy. Let me pour you another shot of Southern Comfort.”

  The cabin cruiser drew close to the island and Perko told Hawk to watch out for rocks. Hawk snorted. “Like it’s the first time I drive a boat.”

  “Could’ve fooled me,” Mongoose grumbled, his bulbous head hanging out the window.

  “Don’t look now,” said Perko, “but there’s the houseboat.” Sure enough, the pontoon palace was putt-putting out of a cove on the north side of the island. It was less than half a mile away.

  “Here we go,” said Mongoose, pulling himself up straight, a rifle in his hands. He pointed the gun at Perko who made a move to push it away. “Ah-ah-aaahhhh,” said Mongoose in a sing-song voice. “This is the end of the road for you, Mr. Ratwick.”

  “Wait a minute. We’re almost done,” Perko protested. “All we gotta do is get over to that boat, collect our money, and we’re all square. Ain’t that the truth, Hawk?” Hawk said nothing, staring straight ahead at the houseboat. He slowed the cabin cruiser’s engines to a dull roar. Perko looked incredulous. “Hawk?” he said.

  “Shut it, Perko. I gotta go with Mongoose on this one. We just spent the last hour and a half running around in this stolen boat, waiting for cops to pick us up, thinking we were chasing the money. But the way I figure it, there’s a good chance the punk doesn’t even have it.”

  Perko grimaced.

  “Can I kill him now?” Mongoose asked. “Maybe play with him a little first? Beat his brains out?”

  Perko backed away from Mongoose, eyes wide, starting to blubber. Hawk said, “By rights, we should be offing you. Mongoose ain’t the only one wants you dead.”

  Reeking of stale puke, Mongoose leaned in real close and jammed Perko’s belly with the rifle barrel. “Say the word, Hawk. I’se ready. I’ll do it,” he said.

  “Instead,” Hawk said, “we’ll just let you off here, in the dinghy, with your new dipshit boat thief partner. I don’t much care where you go or whether you die getting there, but show your face anywhere in the Kawarthas ever again, you’re dog meat.”

  “Huh? What?” complained Mongoose. “But I wants to kill him. Him and his buddy.”

  “For what, Mongoose? Revenge? If I let every asshole who wants revenge kill every other asshole who deserves it, we’d have a hard time scaring up enough Libidos to put together a decent poker game. Frankly, I don’t need the grief. We’re gonna dump them here and we go collect our money from the jackass on the houseboat. If he doesn’t have the money, him you can beat the shit out of.”

  “Can I kill him?”

  “Whatever,” Hawk said. “Just put these two into the dinghy and let’s get this over with.”

  Faced with the gun barrel and Hawk’s betrayal, Perko loosened the cords that held the dinghy in place at the boat’s stern. Once it was in the water, he climbed aboard, followed by Terry, whose teeth were still chattering.

  “Here, this’ll keep you warm,” Mongoose said, leaning over and handing Perko a full bottle of brandy. Then, in a flash, he pulled a knife from his boot. Without Hawk being able to see it, and before Perko could stop him, he poked a neat little gash in the boat’s rubber skin.

  “They’re getting away.” Linette’s shrill whisper sliced under Max’s skin like a paper cut. He was soaked to the chest, his water-filled gators warming slowly, uncomfortable as hell. Every step he took, lake water sloshed up between his legs like one of those fancy French toilets. He watched as the houseboat nosed out of the cove and then lurched as though caught up on something. He cursed himself for not having spotted the entrance earlier.

  “What are you going to do?” Linette hissed.

  Officer Ainsley pulled his pistol from its holster and fired a shot in the air.

  “Stop!” he shouted. “Police! Danny Grant, you are UNDER ARREST!”

  Linette said, “Like that’s going to work.”

  “What do you expect me to do, swim after them?”

  The houseboat motor strained against whatever had grounded it and Officer Ainsley took another shot, at the motor this time.

  The gunshot snapped Danny back to reality, but it was Skeritt’s words that echoed in his brain.

  He had a father.

  He had a father he knew, had known his whole life. Ernie had been there all along. His mind flashed images of fishing by the dock, Ernie showing him how to hook a worm, Danny wondering how the hell the old man did it, blind as a bat. Ernie patiently explaining that it did make a difference that lettuce seeds be planted in rows rather than helter skelter. And the choke in his voice when Danny showed up with his mom for Ernie’s birthday dinner. And how he got pissed when he avoided the guy for six months after dropping out of high school the first time.

  He had a father and his father was dead.

  “Why, Skeritt? Why didn’t she tell me?”

  “Times were different, Danny. She was young. Single. Hurting from the friends she’d lost in the fire. Your mom and Ernie were friends, sometimes more, but they were never in love. They just needed each other, I guess. Patterson cast everyone away like so much trash, and we all helped each other through it.”

  “But he was my father...”

  “And he always treated you right. Just didn’t live with you. Intimacy wasn’t his thing. Besides, it would have messed up his so
cial assistance.” Skeritt paused and looked Danny in the eye. “When you went to prison, he beat himself up for not having done a better job protecting you that night you ran to his cabin. Then the money and, well, we all figured we just needed to stay quiet until you got out.”

  A second shot rang out.

  Danny said, “Skeritt, we’re going back.”

  “What do you mean ‘back?’”

  “I mean one good person is already dead on my account. I’m not letting Judy—or Bif for that matter—get hurt or worse just so I can get away.”

  Skeritt shone the flashlight in his face. “You sure? I doubt that’s the Libidos pretending to be police. You go back now, you’re turning yourself in. The worst Judy could be charged with is helping you escape, assuming they could make it stick.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m tired of running.”

  “It’s your call.”

  Danny nodded.

  “About face then.”

  Abandoning the canoe, the two men headed back toward the lake. Skeritt handed the flashlight to Danny, telling him, “I’ll go in front. Take the flashlight and aim it at my feet. It works better that way, for both of us.”

  When they were nearly there, Danny shouted, “Don’t shoot! I’m turning myself in!”

  Briefly, the grind of the house boat motor went silent, and the only sound was the footfalls the men made on the forest path. Then a shout, maybe fifty feet away: “Danny Grant, is that you? This is Officer Max Ainsley. You’re under arrest!”

  Danny heard a familiar woman’s voice carp, “You sure say that a lot.”

  Linette Paquin felt herself get aroused when Danny Grant emerged from the woods. Not by her former client’s buff jailhouse physique. Nor by his companion’s shaggy features, much as she dug mountain men. Instead, Linette’s excitement had to do with the red canvas duffel bag Danny held at his side.

  “Drop your weapon,” Officer Ainsley told the hairy woodsman. Seemingly surprised by the request, the man leaned the shotgun against a tree and stepped away from it.

  “What’s in the bag?” Officer Ainsley asked. Without waiting for an answer, he said, “Throw it over here.”

  Linette’s eyes traced the arc of the bag as Danny tossed it toward Max’s feet.

  Danny said, “It’s what you couldn’t find four years ago. It’s cash from the grow op. But I ain’t gonna testify. Gonna do my time and start over some day. I’m done running.”

  Max pulled handcuffs from behind his back, still keeping his pistol trained on Danny. He took a step toward him before the bushy fellow said, “Maybe there’s another way we can do this.”

  Officer Ainsley looked at him, questioning.

  “What if I could help you break some other crimes?”

  “What if you told me your name?”

  “Skeritt,” the man said.

  Sasquatch, Linette translated. Why the hell was Max indulging him? He smelled like day-old road kill even fifteen feet away. Beard or no, she preferred her men showered.

  “I’m listening,” Max said. Linette sighed.

  The man named Skeritt said, “For starters, I torched Ernest McCann’s cabin.”

  “You saying you killed Ernie McCann?” Max looked incredulous.

  “No, I just handled his cremation.”

  “What are you doing?” Danny protested.

  “Relax, Danny,” said Skeritt, and to Max, “You know well as I do this boy never did anything evil. Dumb ass mistakes, more like.”

  “I don’t see why I’d let him go just so I can arrest you for some bushwhacked pyromania.”

  “I also set the fire that burned down the grow op. That’s destruction of evidence, isn’t it? I can vouch for the provenance of that bag of money, if you like, tell a judge what I saw in the barn before I set it aflame.”

  “You big on burning things?” asked the cop.

  “Fire’s always been rather useful in my book.”

  “Then I guess I can arrest you right along with young Mr. Grant, can’t I? With a lawyer here as witness to you confessing...”

  “True,” Skeritt answered, smiling, “but I imagine that might require some explaining. It’s not as though I don’t recognize Ms. Paquin.” Giving her a nod, he said, “Finding her here with you, though, makes me wonder all kinds of things.”

  Linette looked back and forth from Max to Skeritt to the red bag at her lover’s feet. She glanced at Danny, standing there eyes wide, his chest heaving with every breath. The Sasquatch shot her a toothy grin full of teeth too white for his face. He went on, “Besides, there’s one heck of a difference between me turning myself in and you trying to arrest both me and Danny to haul our asses back to town.”

  Danny said, “Skeritt, just leave. You don’t have to do this.”

  “I deserve to go to jail much as you, Danny. Difference is, you’ve got a life to lead, two women who love you, and maybe even half a bag of money if the kind officer agrees to take the other half. Me, I could use a state-sponsored holiday from all my years in the bush.”

  Linette said, “Max, don’t listen to him. Arrest Danny. He can go back and finish his sentence. Speaking as a lawyer—his lawyer, I might add—I don’t think there’s any way to tie this particular money to a four-year-old crime with no other evidence. I can just, ah, I can store it for him. In my office, in a safe, I mean.”

  Danny looked at her for the first time. Max told her to shut up. In the momentary silence, Linette heard another boat engine start, somewhere out beyond the houseboat. The men paid it no attention.

  “There’s more,” Skeritt said. “Remember the Patterson sawmill in seventy-eight?”

  “What about it,” Max asked, tensing.

  “Fire that killed seven people?”

  “I know the fire. What are you saying?”

  Danny said, “Skeritt?”

  “Guilty,” Skeritt said. “But it wasn’t supposed to go down that way.” He paused and looked around for a stump to sit on, settling for a fallen log.

  Now there was no mistaking the sound of the approaching boat. It sounded more like a ski-boat, and a big one at that. Not a houseboat at all.

  “Max, someone’s coming,” Linette said. “Who cares about some fire from last century?”

  “Linette, for the last time, shut your mouth,” Max hissed. “Tell us your story, old man, before I shoot you.” Linette and Danny stared at the officer in surprise, but his reaction left Skeritt unfazed.

  “It was the Canada Day weekend. Everyone should have been gone. No-one was ever supposed to have been hurt. I just wanted Prick Patterson to get his come-uppance. Figured either he’d use the insurance money to rebuild or maybe some better mill would pick up the slack, hire us all on—someone who valued their workers more than a flatbed full of two-by-sixes.”

  Max interrupted, finishing Skeritt’s story. “But instead, one crew had been held back, forced to work overtime, and half of those are the ones who died that night.” His voice raised half an octave when he continued. “And my aunt held dinner until nine o’clock before finding out her husband wouldn’t be coming home at all, that night or any other night.”

  “That’s right,” Skeritt said. “Brad Ainsley. Finest trimmer I ever worked with.”

  “You son of a bitch, you killed my uncle.”

  “I’m sorry, son. It wasn’t meant to happen. But you see how maybe I should be the one behind bars, instead of this kid who never did anything you or I might have tried before we came of age. Shoot me if you like, but I think there’s a better way.”

  Linette watched Max closely. He no longer held the pistol level. It hung limp at his side and his hand was shaking. He had moved over to lean on the tree where Skeritt had left the shotgun.

  He said, “I’m taking you both in. Tonight.” He slumped to the ground, his back against the tree, sending the shotgun tumbling to the ground beside him. He started mumbling, “Show them all...bring in Grant...the Patterson fire...be a hero...”

  Neither Max nor th
e others seemed to care that the houseboat had nearly reached the end of the cove. Linette looked beyond it and saw that the other boat was a cabin cruiser and it had come closer to shore as well. Finally, her eyes settled on the duffel bag, lying there where Danny had tossed it. Sensing her claim to a just reward evaporating, she turned off the flashlight, grabbed the bag by the handle, and made a run for the shore.

  She hadn’t gotten more than fifty feet when a burst of gunfire came from the second boat. She heard Skeritt shout behind her. “That’s a machine gun!”

  She was running across an exposed granite slab littered with pine needles when her feet slid in opposite directions. She dropped the flashlight and reached out to grab an overhanging branch to avoid tumbling to the water. As she swung across the rock face, still clutching the duffel bag in her other hand, she felt the double-punch of two bullets slamming into her ribs.

  Linette Paquin did not hear her own scream as she face-planted onto the wet rocks below and felt nothing more.

  “Put the fucking gun away!” Hawk spat at Mongoose. “We want that jerkoff alive. And even out here someone’s gonna hear that goddamn gun and know it’s not for hunting.”

  “Ain’t no gun’s for huntin’ when it’s dark out, Hawk. Don’t see why you’s gotta get so cross at me.”

  “Shut it and help me keep an eye on the depth finder here.”

  From the cabin cruiser, they could make out the houseboat deep in the cove. Mongoose, who had liberally sprayed the boat with fifty-caliber bullets, pointed and said, “See, it worked, Hawk. I done good.”

  “Look at the map. There’s one way in and one way out. Problem is, the rocks make it hard for us to follow them in. I say we anchor here and wait here until morning. He’s not gonna swim off the island with the money. And that pontoon plunker will be easy to catch whenever he moves.”

  “Paddle harder,” Perko hissed. Terry struggled to maneuver the rubber lifeboat toward the island; the wind pushed hard the other way. Perko had wrapped three fingers of his left hand in a wet sock and stuffed them into the slit cut by Mongoose minutes before. With his other hand, he took a swig of the brandy Mongoose had given him as a going away present, the bottle already half empty. The dinghy’s donut-shaped sides were getting spongy and no matter how hard Terry tried, the wind kept pushing them in the wrong direction.