It was two forty-five in the afternoon when Ken Calvert called and said she was all set. The money had been delivered and Kate could stop by for her withdrawal. She went outside looking for Jack, who said he was going exploring. He’d been gone for a while, thirty minutes at least. What the hell was he doing? He knew she was going to get a call and they’d have to be ready.
She stood on the bluff, scanning the shoreline. She didn’t see him. He wasn’t out front either and the bank closed in a little over an hour. She’d have to leave, pick the money up herself. The only problem was the Land Rover. It was too obvious-Bill Wink, if he saw it, would recognize it in a second and then she’d have some explaining to do. She saw the key to Jack’s car on the kitchen counter and decided to take the Lexus. She left Jack a note on the breakfast room table, got in behind the wheel and adjusted the seat. She’d go to the bank, they’d load her up and she’d come back. It sounded easy, but it didn’t happen that way.
She drove to Traverse City and pulled in behind the bank building just as Ken Calvert told her to. She parked in front of the silver metal door that was the size of a garage door and watched it rise up and retract. She backed into a loading area that had a concrete floor and brick walls and a high ceiling, the metal door closing behind her.
Calvert was waiting with two uniformed guards. The money was on a hand truck, shrink-wrapped in bundles and looked like something you’d get at Costco-buy it in bulk and save.
She got out of the car and glanced at Calvert. He wore a white shirt and a Kelly green tie that reminded her of St. Patrick’s Day, the only day you’d wear a tie that color. He had a clipboard in his pale hands that each had two gold rings, the rings seeming more excessive when she noticed the gold watch and gold ID bracelet on his wrists.
Calvert said, “I thought you were going to bring somebody with you.”
Kate said, “It didn’t work out.”
“You’ve got two million there,” Calvert said. “Let me call the sheriff, arrange for a police escort to your destination. We’re more than a financial institution; we’re your friend and neighbor. It would be irresponsible of me to allow you to withdraw such a large sum of cash without expressing my concern for your safety.”
“I’ll be fine,” Kate said.
“I’m sure you will, but if anything happens, I want you to know Traverse City Bank and Trust is in no way liable,” Calvert said.
“I understand,” Kate said. And she did. He was just covering his Canadian ass.
He said, “There are a hundred hundred-dollar bills in each banded stack, equaling ten thousand-and a hundred banded stacks in each bundle. A hundred times ten thousand equals a million, if you follow me.”
Kate said, “And two times a million equals two million, if I’m not mistaken.”
He grinned, showing his Chiclet-size teeth that were so white they looked blue.
She signed for the money and the guards put it in the trunk. The metal door rose up, and as she drove out, she saw the Indian, Johnny Crow, behind the wheel of a black Chevy panel van, parked there. Bill Wink had said he was head of security at the casino. So she assumed he was waiting to pull in and drop off or pick up money. She made eye contact with him, met his gaze for a couple of seconds and drove past him.
Kate was on Bay Shore Road driving out of Traverse City, doing fifty-five, the lake calm and bright blue to her right. She glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a white deputy sheriff ’s cruiser behind her. At first she thought it was Bill Wink, but as the cop car got closer, she could see it wasn’t. Maybe Calvert, disregarding her point of view, called the sheriff ’s department anyway, insisting on a police escort. Or maybe it was a coincidence, just a cop on patrol.
She saw the deputy sheriff pull out and drive up next to her like he was going to pass her-the cop looking over, checking her out-then slowing down and drifting back behind her. She heard bursts of siren and watched him in the rearview mirror and saw the flashers and looked for a place to pull over, but nothing looked good. She slowed and put her turn signal on and took a left on Dumas, a two-lane county road and pulled over. The sheriff ’s deputy followed her and stopped behind her. There were unplowed cornfields on both sides of the road and it smelled like manure.
He got out of his car, put his hat on, and as he approached, she noticed he had his hand on his gun. She pressed the button and her window went down.
He walked up and said, “Step out of the vehicle.”
He stood behind her so she had to turn her head to see him.
“What’s this all about?”
“You are operating a stolen vehicle,” he said. “Now step out.”
“It isn’t mine,” Kate said. “I borrowed it from a friend.” And as soon as she said it, realized how lame it sounded.
“I’m not going to ask you again,” he said, raising his voice.
So Jack was still involved in his old trade after all. Kate considered the situation. She was driving a stolen car with two million in the trunk. How was she going to explain the car or the money?
She wasn’t.
She couldn’t.
She considered putting it in gear, let the hard-ass cop chase her down and try catch and her. At Owen’s suggestion, she’d gone to an advanced driving school and felt confident behind the wheel, believed she could give this young rural police officer a run for his money. But she rejected the notion as being too risky. She didn’t want to put anyone else’s life in danger. She had a better idea. She slid the Beretta out of her purse and put it in her jacket pocket.
The cop opened the door now.
“You’re under arrest,” he said. He had his hand on his gun, but didn’t draw it from the holster.
She stepped out on the blacktop road. Standing next to him, he looked like a Bill Wink clone-same height and build, same two-tone uniform. He pushed her against the front fender and bent her over the hood.
He said, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
He kicked her feet apart and ran his hands up her legs, and the inside of her thighs, getting a good feel.
She said, “What’re you doing?”
“Seeing if you got any weapons.”
“Is this how you get your kicks?”
“I’m the law, I can do whatever I want.”
He said it like he believed it.
Kate knew it was now or never. He reached inside her jacket, ran his hands up her sides, touched her breasts, pawed her like a teenager feeling up his girlfriend for the first time. She turned now, and in one compact motion brought the Beretta out of her pocket and stuck the barrel in the center of his chest. His cockiness vanished in a split second. He looked surprised and afraid.
Kate said, “Think you can do anything you want, huh?”
“I didn’t mean it,” he said.
“You make a habit of doing things you don’t mean?”
He said, “Listen, I’ve got a wife and two little ones at home.” The hard guy tone gone now, replaced by concern.
Kate said, “You look worried and you should be. If you try anything else I’m going do your wife a favor and shoot you. Give me your gun.”
He undid the strap on top of his holster and handed her his Glock-the shape unmistakable, the big G in script on the barrel-passing it to her with his thumb and index finger on the handle-showing her he wasn’t going to try anything. She grabbed the gun and dropped it in the pocket of her suede coat.
She said, “We’re going to walk over to your car now. You want to see the kids tonight? Don’t do anything stupid like you’ve already done. I feel bad for your wife-married to someone gets his kicks like that-and your kids. What kind of pervert dad are you?”
She escorted him to his car and opened the door. “Give me your keys.”
He reached in his pocket and handed them to her. Then he took his hat off and got in behind the wheel and she went around and got in the front passenger seat. He looked young without the hat-only a few years older than Luke. She aimed the Beretta at him and said, “Give me your handcuffs.”
He took them out of a leather compartment on his duty belt and handed them to her.
“Where’s the key?”
He gave that to her too, and she told him to cuff his hands through the steering wheel and he did and now he looked foolish, with his brush cut and pimples-like a high school athlete who’d gotten in trouble.
“Driving a stolen vehicle and using deadly force to resist arrest. I’d say you’re in a whole lot of trouble,” the deputy said. He grinned at her now. “They’re going to catch you-you know that. Let me go, I’ll put in a good word for you.”
“I’d worry more about my own situation if I were you,” Kate said. “I’d like to hear you explain how you lost your weapon and were taken hostage by a woman.” She noticed his nametag for the first time. “How’s that going to look on your record, impact your career, Deputy Lamborne?”
Kate opened the door and got out and moved to the Lexus and got in. There was no traffic, no one around. She took a series of arrow-straight county roads back to Cathead Bay-slowing down at one point, throwing Deputy Lamborne’s Glock into a wooded area-and although it was a shortcut, it still took thirty minutes to get back to the lodge: time spent thinking about Luke, hoping he was okay and how she was going to deal with Jack.
He came out of the lodge grinning as soon as she pulled up.
“Why’d you leave without me?”
Luke ran till his lungs were about to explode. He was surprised, thought he was in shape, having played tennis since he was a little kid. It was the chain that weighed him down, made him tired. It didn’t feel like anything at first and now felt heavier than a cinder block. He tried to position it so it didn’t make noise, but it was impossible. It was the handcuffs too, metal digging into his wrists, drawing blood in two places.
Once he’d been able to loosen the eyebolt, it was easy. He waited, listening till he didn’t hear them, and unscrewed it all the way. He coiled the chain into a circle and slipped it over his shoulder. He unlocked the window and lifted it open and slid out, dropped to the ground.
The sky was clear blue, sun up high as he moved through heavy woods, feet crunching on dry leaves. He slowed his pace, stopping, looking back, thinking that if they were coming after him, he’d hear them, wouldn’t he? He didn’t-just the rustle of the wind coming through the trees and an occasional formation of ducks quacking overhead.
It was getting hot. He felt beads of sweat run down his forehead and cheeks. He wiped his face on the sleeve of his flannel shirt. He was conscious of the gamey smell of his own body after not showering for three days, and the heavy sound of his own breathing.
He was afraid, but his fear went to another level when he heard Camo’s booming voice behind him like a megaphone blaring through the trees.
“I’m going to find you-you little cocksucker-and I’m going to fuck you up.”
Luke pictured Camo’s face, with its square cartoon jaw and sadistic grin-and he picked up his pace. He had a sense of where he was, seeing the map of the Leelanau Peninsula in his head and reckoning the location of the cottages, about halfway between Omena and Northport, thinking he was heading east and he’d see the lake soon.
He stopped sometime later and heard them, and they sounded close. Luke ducked low and pressed himself against a stand of white birch, getting bark dust on his shirt. He saw Camo and the girl pass right by him, a few feet away-both carrying pistols.
Camo said, “I’m going to kill that little fucker.”
The girl said, “Can you keep your voice down till we find him? He could be anywhere in here.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Camo said.
The girl said, “Go ahead, then. You’ve probably already fucked it up anyway.”
Luke held his breath, didn’t make a sound even as an early-season mosquito drilled into his hand, sucking his blood. He wondered where the black guy was, wondered if he was sneaking up right now, about to surprise him.
Luke shifted his weight and the chain rattled.
Camo stopped and said, “What was that?”
The girl said, “What was what?”
“I heard something.”
“No shit,” the girl said. “We’re in the woods. You’re going to hear all kinds of things.”
Camo started back toward the birch trees. Luke ducked down, disappearing in a tangle of alder and held his breath, watching Camo’s feet coming toward him-black motorcycle boots and jeaned legs moving through heavy ground cover. Camo stopped a few feet from his head, standing there, not making a sound. Luke glanced up through the foliage and saw his face, eyes darting, scoping the scene. He held a big chrome-plated automatic in his hand, hanging at arm’s length, Luke below him, right there, and he didn’t look down. Not once.
The girl broke the silence. She said, “Anytime you’re ready. He’s just putting more distance between us.”
Camo turned now and walked back toward her. Luke waited till they were out of sight, saw them disappear in the trees and then waited a few more minutes before he made his move, heading in the direction of the lake, figuring he could run down the beach, break into a cottage, and call the police.
He took off running and was surprised when he came to a clearing-but it wasn’t a clearing. It was a county road cutting across the peninsula a few miles west of the cottages. He was all turned around. He’d gone in the wrong direction.
DeJuan was listening to Keak do “White Ts, Blue Jeans, and Nikes,” scanning the tree line, driving by in Scarface, doing twenty, exhaust of the Malibu popping some rumble. Thinking how fast a situation could change. Thirty minutes earlier he was going to be rich, counting the money. But he wasn’t going to get nothing, they didn’t find the kid, find him quick.
Looking out at the hood he needed a carwash, had pine needles and shit all over his custom gold metalflake paintwork, color called Aztec bullion, motherfucker had real gold in it-straight up.
DeJuan was driving slow, creepin’, glancing at the wall of trees to his right. Saw something up ahead, dude appear coming out of the woods, running toward him, moving his arms like he trying to signal him. Was the kid, and as DeJuan drove up, you should’ve seen the look on the kid’s face, he saw who it was.
Kid took off now, going back in the woods. DeJuan jammed on the brake, skidded to a stop. He grabbed the shotgun off the passenger seat, got out, went after him, running through the trees on this irregular ground, wishing he’d laced up his Nikes.
Caught the dude though, pushed his punk-ass down. Now DeJuan, breathing a little, racked the slide on the shotgun, a semiautomatic Remington Wingmaster twelve-gauge. Said, “Hear that? That’s doom herself talking at you. She saying, fuck with me, fuck with me-don’t fuck with me.”
Little man got the message. Stood up looking scared, shotgun being a powerful communicator. DeJuan noticed the kid had mud on his pants, wondering now how he was going to protect his white leather seats. Had the hides dyed to match his Zegna suit. Connolly motherfucking leather was some high-profile skins. Shit smell like money. Uh-huh.
The black guy made Luke sit on a blanket he got from his trunk, worried, he said, about Luke getting his ride all full of dirt. It was a strange car with these cheesy white seats and the word Scarface inlaid on the wood dash in chrome script.
“Like it? That teakwood,” the black guy said, “come from Indonesia.”
Like he was looking for Luke’s approval.
He reached his hand out, rubbing it over the lacquered surface.
“Feel it, go on.”
Luke stretched his arms out and touched the wood with his cuffed hands. It felt smooth and warm.
“Know what that motherfucker cost?”
Luke turned his head, looking at him.
The black guy grinned. “Twenty-five hundred dollars. Believe that? What they get for custom anymore.”
Luke couldn’t believe it. It was so tacky. Why would anyone pay that much to make their car look like that?
The black guy turned up the stereo.
“Twenty-four Bose speakers. What you think?”
He could feel the heavy thump thump of the base. They were listening to a rap song, the black guy talking to him, but Luke could only see his lips moving the music was so loud.
He turned it down and said, “Know Keak?”
Luke said, “What?” He could barely hear him.
“Keak Da Sneak, motherfucker, you deaf?”
Luke shook his head. Who was Keak Da Sneak?
“Born name Kunta Kinte. Mean ‘warrior’ in Swahili.”
The black guy took a long uneven joint out of a compartment in the console and lit it with a gold lighter. Luke watched him take a deep drag, hold it in till he looked like he was going to explode and let it out, blowing a stream of gray smoke into the windshield, engulfing him in a cloud of hydroponic herb. Luke coughed.
“Yeah, that’s some good shit, ain’t it?”
He extended his arm, handing the joint to Luke. “Want some?”
Luke looked at him through the smoke and shook his head.
“How you going to expand your consciousness, take your little punk-ass mind to another realm?”
He hit the joint again, held it in till his cheeks puffed up, till the smoke came out like it was under pressure. He turned the music up and started singing, rapping with the rapper, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as he drove.
“Two outs, two strikes livin’ in the ninth innin’,
smack over the gate, I hit the plate now I’m
grinnin’.”
He stopped when they pulled in the yard in front of the cottages, shut off the car and it was quiet, Luke’s ears ringing like he’d been to a concert.
“My man, Ted going be thizzing over this. Fool has a temper, as you seen. Don’t say nothing, see maybe I can chill him.”
He was right, Camo was mad. Camo said, “I got mosquito bites all over my neck ’cause of you.”
Good, Luke thought.
Camo came at him but stopped, faking like he was going to hit him.
Camo said, “Lookit him quiver like a little sissy.”
Luke relaxed, let out a breath. Now Camo turned and hit him with a punch that stunned him and he went down. Camo kicked him in the ribs with his steel-tipped motorcycle boots. He looked like he was going to do it again when the black guy came in the room and stopped him.
“Yo, Ted, want to ease up on my man? Time to collect. Don’t fuck with the merchandise. See, he like an expensive vase or something we trying to sell, want it perfect-no chips or scratches and such.”
Camo said, “The hell you talking about?”