A couple days earlier DeJuan said to Jack, “Yo, welcome back to the famous Timber Lake Cottages. Been thinking. I see timber, don’t see no lake. Theo, where the water at?”
Celeste and Teddy were getting out of the Camaro.
Teddy said, “How do I know?”
Like it was a real question. DeJuan believed, was dogs smarter than Teddy. Maybe not a street mutt, but for sure a Doberman or a purebred poodle. He was thinking of an experiment: switch Teddy’s brain with a poodle’s, see how much smarter he got. Get invited on Letterman and such, bring Teddy out on a leash. “My dawg, check him out.”
He liked fucking with Teddy but really wanted to fuck his girl, fine creamy-skinned bitch with tats all over her pale white perfect body-ugly ones, graphic dark-blue shapes like she belonged to a cult. Had a big motherfucker on her back. Wasn’t just a tat, was a scene-crazy, too. Bitch posing at the entrance to a cemetery, pumpkins lining an iron fence-huh? The tats hidden under her clothes. Never expect it, looking at her. He was peeking in their room through a crack in the door, saw her coming out of the bathroom naked, bitty little shaved muff like a mustache down there and a nice-sized pair of naturals with pink nipples. Lord God. That’s all he could think of now. Couldn’t get that vision out of his head. Girl had a profound effect on him.
DeJuan was on the porch of his cottage-kicking back in a green metal chair with rusted legs, cleaning his gun, his Sig. He said, “Where the kid at?”
Teddy nodded at the trunk.
“Just going to leave him?”
There were nine cottages that had seen better days-grouped together in threes, separated by stands of birch and cedar-spread out across a couple of acres. They’d rented the last three units: seven, eight and nine, only people staying there. Manager lived in Suttons Bay, said to call if they needed anything.
Jack ducked in his cottage while Teddy and Celeste lifted the kid out of the car. Jack saying he never wanted the mom or kid knowing he was involved. He was the hero-going to come back, keep momma cool till they got the money.
Teddy was walking the little dude to the cottage, stuck his foot out and tripped him. The kid, hands taped behind his back, went down. Sadistic motherfucker grinned, enjoying himself. Man had some strange ways about him.
He said, “Hey, rich kid, watch where you’re going. You got to be more careful.”
Teddy squatted and pulled the kid to his feet and walked him to the middle cottage where they cuffed his hands to a chain bolted to the floor. The chain long enough to stretch to a log bed against the far wall of the room and to the adjoining bathroom-his own crib.
Teddy came out of his cottage and said to DeJuan, “Hey, you leave the ransom note?”
DeJuan opened his eyes big, gave him a surprised look. Said, “Shit, I forgot.”
Teddy said, “Godammit, do I got to do everything?”
DeJuan looked at him and said, “One thing you never have to worry about is this motherfucker doing his job. I’m reliable like FedEx, understand?”
If DeJuan hadn’t told Teddy they needed a ransom note, it never would’ve come up. Hick moron took credit for it, thought it was his idea. DeJuan had modeled the note-the style, anyway-after the one in Dirty Harry, one the psycho sent to the police telling them he had the girl and they had twenty-four hours to deliver the money, the ransom. Words from the newspaper cut out and glued on a piece of paper.
Jack saw it and said, “What’s that for? You don’t need a ransom note, you make a phone call.”
DeJuan had seen a lot of movies and believed this was how it was done. There were rules for certain things and you had to follow them. You kidnap someone, his family expect a note. That’s how it worked.
When he made the phone call, he put his Fubu over the cell, voice coming out all garbled and such, couldn’t tell if he was a southern Illinois sheep-banging bigot or a west Detroit black-power racist.
He got the idea of cutting the kid’s finger or ear off reading about J. Paul Getty’s grandson was kidnapped by Italian terrorists; J. Paul himself worth over a billion at the time. Kidnappers cut the grandson ear off, sent it to his moms. Mail come, there’s a bloody ear in an envelope. That would get your attention, no doubt. He was thinking, no matter what you did it was all about details-mix in a little fact and fiction for dramatic effect.
Now they were waiting for Jack to do his thing.
Bill Wink was working a day shift. He drove out to McCall’s and took a look around. He wanted to make sure the place was locked up and nobody was trying to rob it or vandalize it. He parked on the gravel drive, looked in the front windows. He walked around back, checked the doors and windows-everything locked up tight. He thought he heard a dog bark inside. Looked in the picture window in the big room, didn’t see anyone, person or dog. Maybe he was hearing things-the wind, maybe.
That whole thing about Luke was strange. Taking a bus didn’t wash, either. Taking a bus from where? He’d have to have gotten to Traverse City and how’d he do that? Something wasn’t right. It didn’t make sense. Unless Kate was making the whole thing up-hiding the fact that Luke really was kidnapped. He also considered the possibility that he was overreacting, his cop’s mind looking for a crime where none existed.
He scanned the tree line, spotted the big maple with its high plume of leaves, the tree stand still attached about fifty feet up. He’d run the name Theodore Monroe Hicks on NCIC, found out he’d been arrested five times: robbery armed, grand theft auto twice, assault with intent and a DUI, his only conviction. This Theodore Hicks was a bad dude. Bill read a brief description of each of the charges. Under assault, it said he hit a man named Owen McCall with an impact wrench and broke his collarbone, Mr. McCall refusing to press charges. There, finally, was a connection. But, what did it mean? What was this Teddy Hicks up to now? He did an all-points on the Camaro Z28, but nothing had come up in the past twenty-four hours. Maybe Teddy had taken off, left the county, but Bill doubted it.
He walked down to the end of the yard, stood on the bluff looking out at the water and down the beach, deserted in both directions, not a soul for as far as he could see. He thought about Kate now, pictured himself having dinner with her, a romantic setting, looking out at the moonlit bay, drinking wine, talking and having fun.
Girls had told him he was nice-looking and he sure had a lot of interesting stories involving police work. He once saved a kitten from a burning building-girls loved that one. And he delivered a baby in the front seat of a pickup truck. That was another one that generated a lot of interest. Seeing that baby’s head pop out of her-Jesus H. Christ-was something he’d never forget. The new mother was so grateful, she named the baby after him: Bill. Bill Cline. Telling these stories made girls think he was caring and sensitive and had gotten him laid more than a few times. He ended up marrying one of them, a farm girl with big knockers, named Artha.
When he met her he’d said, “I’ve never heard of Artha before. What kind of name is that?”
She said, “Martha without the M.”
That became her nickname. He’d say, “How you doing, Martha without the M?” She’d giggle and her giant breasts would shake and heave.
The marriage ended after fifteen months, when Artha came home unexpectedly one day and found Bill in bed with a cute little court reporter named Tammi. Artha chased her through the trailer with a butcher knife and then outside and down the highway, Tammi naked, running with her clothes and purse under her arm.
The next day, when Bill was at work, Artha pulled the queen-size mattress off the bed, dragged it out in the yard and doused it with gasoline. She’d torched it along with all Bill’s clothes-every goddamn thing except his spare uniform. He considered having her arrested but decided to let it slide. If that got the anger out of her system, maybe it was worth it.
Next time Kate came back up, he was going to make his move. He looked out at the water and down the beach. He didn’t want to get ahead of himself, but he could see himself marrying Kate one day and living here. It was more than a feeling he had. He actually believed it was going to happen and it gave him confidence.
On his way to Leland, he told John Mitchell he’d stop and check on the cottages. He’d run into Mitchell the night before, having a beer at the Bluebird Bar, Mitchell saying he’d rented three units to this oddball group, said they was from Dee-troit. Said they was going to do some fishing but didn’t have any equipment.
“That isn’t a crime,” Bill said. “What do you think they’re doing out there?”
“That’s a good question,” Mitchell said. “I don’t know. I’m just glad to have their money, that’s all I can tell you.”
“Want me to check ’em out, make sure the cottages are still standing?”
“If it ain’t too much trouble,” Mitchell said.
DeJuan was on his Mac G5 with the wireless Internet connection, checking out St. Tropez, his next destination. Looking at shots of the beautiful people on they yachts. Saw Jay Z and Beyoncé. P. Diddy dressed all in white, two hoes competing for his attention. DeJuan imaging himself in the music business, start his own label-Murder Dawg Records-like that. Have the capital to do it now.
It was day motherfucking three and he was ready to get out of Hicksville, cut Ted loose. Dude gave the whole white race a bad rap. Truth be told, he like to be back in his crib with LaRita, watching his flat-screen, smoking on some good. His patience on empty, a little left working on fumes. But then, reminded himself, he was close to collecting what was going to be his biggest payday ever-seven hundred large. And when everything shook loose, all the scenerios played out, it wasn’t inconceivable he take home the whole thing, the mother lode, be set for life. And felt better.
He heard a car pull up, looked out, saw a white deputy sheriff ’s cruiser in the yard. He got up, grabbed his Sig, pushed the safety off and slipped it in his Sean Johns, covered by his warm-up. He closed the laptop and went outside.
He watched the deputy sheriff get out of the car. He wore a brown uniform with short sleeves, showing off his guns.
“Yo, how’s it going, Officer? Perfect day, isn’t it?” DeJuan said, looking up at the blue sky, not a cloud in it.
Deputy said, “That yours?” checking out his ride.
“1984 Chevrolet Malibu,” DeJuan said.
Deputy said, “You have car trouble the other day?”
“Not that I recall,” DeJuan said. Wondering what he was talking about.
Deputy said, “I saw it parked on Woolsey Lake Road.”
DeJuan, picking up the thread, said, “Had to take a leak, you know, went in the woods.”
“When you’ve got to go…” The deputy grinned. “We don’t see cars like that around here,” he said. “What’s that say on the front?”
“Scarface.” DeJuan had it customized in chrome script on the grille and also on the dash.
“After the movie?”
“No, the gangsta. After Capone.” Man was the gangsta’s gangsta. DeJuan didn’t tell him about the hydraulics and such-twenty grand worth of electric pumps and cylinders powered by twelve batteries. He didn’t tell him ’Face was a scraper, neither. Could do shit was unbelievable-go low, frame on the tarmac-go high, leap six feet off the ground. For real. He didn’t tell him about ghostriding the whip or gas brake dipping, either, like the cracker deputy knew anything about getting hyphy.
“Where you from?” Deputy said.
“Beautiful downtown Dee-troit.”
“I hear they fixed it up for the Super Bowl.”
“Super Bowl long gone,” DeJuan said. “Look like it old self again.”
Deputy looked strong, in shape, flexing the muscles in his arms.
“What brings you up here?”
“Relax-a-tion,” DeJuan said, stretching the word for emphasis. “Stress relief. Get out of the big city, breathe some clean country air.”
“Good place to do it,” Deputy said. “What kind of work you do?”
Celeste watched DeJuan and the deputy from the front window of the cottage. It was the guy from the other night; she recognized him. Good thing Teddy’d gone to get beer. No reason to call attention to themselves. She wondered what DeJuan was saying to him, the cop grinning like he said something funny.
He hung around, looking at DeJuan’s lowrider, Celeste getting impatient, wishing he’d leave and hoping Teddy didn’t come driving in. And just when she thought he’d never fucking leave, he got back in his car and went to the end of the property, made a U-turn and came back, going slow, looking around again and took off.
She went in to check on the kid. Opened the door, expected to see him, but he wasn’t on the floor or the bed. The chain was gone. The window was open. Little fucker’d unscrewed the eyebolt.
She called Teddy’s cell. He didn’t answer. Where in the hell was he? She left him a message. “Remember the deputy from the other night? He was just here. We got another problem too. Get back here as fast as you can.”
Teddy came flying in a few minutes later, locked the Z up in a cloud of dust, and ran in the cabin. She and DeJuan were in the kid’s room. Teddy came in with a beer, looked around, said, “Where’s he at?”
Celeste said, “He’s gone.”
Teddy said, “What do you mean, gone?”
“You see him in here?” Celeste said, wondering what he didn’t understand. She pointed to the open window. “He escaped.”
“I leave for fifteen minutes,” Teddy said, “you let him get away.”
Celeste said, “I told you bozos that screw in the floor was a bad idea.”
Teddy said, “Like you know what the hell you’re talking about, huh?” He was mad, spit flying out of his mouth. “Listen, if it had something to do with cooking or sewing, I might’ve asked your opinion. We don’t find that little dick with ears, it’s all over.”
DeJuan said, “Everybody be cool. We find him.”
But he didn’t look like he believed it.