Authors: Scott Cook
“He’s selling himself short,” said Tess. “Sam was pretty magnificent. He saved my life.”
“But not Diane Manning’s,” said Sam. The smile was gone.
“It’s tough to watch someone die,” said Alex.
“I guess you know that as well as we do.”
Alex looked out at the noonday sun dappling through the pine boughs. The beauty of it was lost on him in his current frame of mind. “I don’t know if you ever get over it,” he said. “But you know what’s the weirdest thing now? I didn’t even know Tom Ferbey, and he didn’t know me. I spent more than a little time beating myself up for not listening to him sooner, thinking he was just some crank who was wasting my time. Now I find out I never actually spoke to the guy, and the guy I
did
talk to was lying to me. I have no idea what Tom was like, outside of the portrait Leslie Singer painted of him during the trial.”
“His wife has spent a lot of time beating herself up, too,” said Sam. “I got the sense that she was a bit of a shrew to him. But it was Tom’s son, Josh, who really hit home for me. I saw something in his eyes. He’d lost his hero. I think that’s what’s been driving me in this. It’s not the story anymore.”
Tess reached out a hand and stroked Sam’s back. “We should really talk about that,” she said. “There
is
no story anymore.”
Sam frowned. “What do you mean?”
“What are we going to say? Someone stole eleven million dollars from a biker gang and framed the leader for murder? And then came after all of us trying to shut us up? Shippy would call the boys in white to come haul us away; there’s no hard evidence to prove any of what we’ve figured out. And even if he
did
believe us, how do we frame the story without calling the police down on Crowe?”
Sam stared at nothing for a few moments. “You’re right.”
“Welcome to the club,” said Alex. “My book is fifty thousand words of wasted effort. Leslie Singer said Chuck Palliser wanted me to write the story and make some money off of all the shit I had to go through, with the murder and then the trial. To be honest, I think he was hoping for a little fame in the bargain, too. It was the least he deserved after all those years undercover, putting his life on the line for ninety grand a year. Now I find out the whole thing was a lie, and I can’t write about any of it, for the same reasons you can’t.”
Angie put an arm around his shoulders. “I don’t think you should delete what you’ve written just yet,” she said. “You put your heart and soul into that book; I know I never got to read any of it, but I do know you worked your butt off. Maybe you can salvage some of it.” She smiled. “If nothing else, you could turn it into a fictional story.”
He smiled back, but it was forced. “Thanks, babe. Maybe you’re right. I
will
keep it. Who knows how this is all going to shake out?”
“Good.”
Sounds of rummaging were coming from the kitchen. Shitbox was hunting for something in the cabinets. “Geez,” the big man muttered.
“Something we can help you with, Shitbox?” Angie called.
“No,” he grumped. “This place was supposed to have everything; what kind of place doesn’t have Frank’s Red Hot? I need it for lunch.”
Angie walked into the kitchen just as Shitbox gave up his search. He was stirring the contents of a cast iron pan filled with what looked to be a mixture of potatoes, onions, peppers, and Spam. Almost a variation on Irma’s corned beef hash. “Something wrong?” she asked.
“I don’t have the secret ingredient,” Shitbox whined.
Tess joined them in the kitchen. She placed a hand on Shitbox’s massive shoulder. “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she said.
“No, it won’t,” he said miserably. “It ties everything together.”
“Why don’t we go get you some?” Angie asked. “There’s a corner store that’s only a block or so from here. That place that’s attached to the old gas station.”
Shtibox scrunched up his face. “I don’t think so, Miz Dawson,” he said. “Jason said not to let you leave.”
“He said not to let
me
leave,” Alex said, joining them. “These three are free to do what they want.”
Tess looked at Sam. “He
did
say it was up to us. And I’m getting a little stir crazy in here.”
Shitbox’s eyes darted from one face to the next. “I don’t know,” he said, obviously conflicted.
“What harm can it do?” Angie asked. “Crowe said himself that we’re the three least likely to be recognized. And it’s only a block, for Pete’s sake.”
“Still,” Shitbox grumbled.
Sam crouched down to the black nylon bag on the floor. “What if I take this along?” He pulled out a small pistol. It looked to Alex like the kind James Bond used to use in the old movies. “I can carry it in the back of my pants, just like Crowe. Piece of cake.”
“Well . . .”
“It’s settled, then,” said Angie. “Now, I’m finally going to brave that bathroom.” She made a face. “I don’t like toilets that you’re not supposed to flush.”
“Amen,” Tess agreed.
The bizarreness of the scenario suddenly hit home to Alex. It was as if they were a group of pals deciding which bar they would choose to drink away the hot afternoon in.
Hey guys, does red wine go with my nine millimeter, or is it white? I can never remember.
He resisted the urge to chuckle.
Tess was stroking Shitbox’s arm. “We’ll be fine,” she soothed. “We’ll be back before you know it. And lunch smells amazing. I can’t wait to try it with the Frank’s Red Hot.”
Angie emerged from the bathroom. Alex could see she had brushed some of the wildness out of her hair. She crossed to him and slid her arms under his. He clasped his hands behind her back.
“Don’t worry about us,” she said, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. “Really, we’ll be fine.”
Alex glanced at Sam. “I know you will,” he said. “But hurry back anyway, okay? And no trying to sneak off to your place. They may not know where you are, but they know where you live.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes,
dear
.”
Alex reached out without thinking and grabbed her. She gasped as he pulled her close and planted a kiss on her mouth. Her lips parted to allow his tongue as she returned his passion.
“All right,” Sam said. “Either get a room, or let’s go.”
They parted. Angie’s cheeks were flushed. “Wow,” she said. She looked almost confused, as if seeing him for the first time. “You really know how to send a girl on her way.”
“Safe,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Right?”
“Right.” Her face was serious now. “For you.”
Shitbox had returned to his lunch. He tried to look nonchalant, but Alex could see worry on that great moon face. Alex watched Angie, Tess and Sam stroll down the gravel road that led to the cabin for about a hundred yards. Angie turned her face upwards toward the brilliant midday sun as they emerged from under the mountain pines. After that, the road curved and led down to the paved road where the Bluebird Motor Inn sat. She stopped for a moment and turned to wave at him. Alex couldn’t read her expression from this distance, but he waved back. He watched them until they turned the corner and disappeared behind a copse of golden elder bushes.
#
Crowe had spent the better part of an hour exploring Lost Lake, and he still didn’t know what he was looking for. The downtown was mostly a beachfront strip with motels, honky tonks, boutique shops, and down home restaurants with names like Bugler’s Landing and Irma’s Kitchen. A handful of side streets branched off the core, all of them lined with year-round homes, most of which were in dire need of renovation. Some were also home to the lower-end accommodations, like the Bluebird Motor Inn.
Nothing he had seen stood out to him as a possible base of operations for the people he was hunting. He based his criteria on what he, himself, would choose in the same type of situation. Most places were too close to areas where people gathered. It was the height of the summer tourist season – Crowe estimated the town’s population right now was easily four times what it was in the winter – and those tourists tended to move in herds. Few places in town were more than a stone’s throw from masses of potential witnesses.
He wandered back down to the beach, blending in with the lunch crowds and the folks milling to and from the water. He stopped in at a tourist information kiosk and picked up a handful of maps and brochures from a pimply kid who was manning it. Most were simply advertisements for the various ways to spend your valuable time and money in Lost Lake, from parasailing to houseboating to cycling tours. The maps were a little more useful; they showed the outlying area and historic spots. One in particular stood out to him: the Bluebird zinc mine, about a mile and a half out of town. It had been shut down in the fifties.
“Is this mine open for tours?” Crowe asked.
“Nah,” the kid replied. “They filled it in years ago. All that’s left is the office building. You can’t even get there by road anymore; the new main road bypassed the feeder out to the mine back in the seventies. The only way in is on the walking path that follows the east side of the lake. After that, it’s about a hundred yards into the bush.” He grinned knowingly and leaned forward. “We used to go there for makeout parties when I was in high school.”
Crowe smiled back.
Some kids may have, but not you
, he thought. “Thanks,” he said. “That’s really helpful.”
The kid looked confused. “What’s so interesting about an old mine office?” he asked. “There’s nothing to see there.”
“That depends on your perspective,” Crowe said as he headed out for the east side of the lake.
#
The store Angie was leading them to turned out to be closer to two blocks away from Shtibox’s cabin, but Sam wasn’t going to complain. It was good to get out and do something; being cooped up in the cabin, even for a few hours, had started to wear on him. Plus it was an absolutely gorgeous day. They walked more slowly than they probably should have, savoring the sun.
Tess was the one who pointed it out. “This is a bit longer than you said,” she mock scolded. “Crowe would
not
approve.”
“Jason Crowe can kiss my ass,” Angie said evenly. “I’m not making this trip to get hot sauce; if I can’t go back to my apartment, the least I can do is pick up some deodorant. I mean, we’re not animals.”
“Well,” said Sam, “Shitbox might be a shaved buffalo, but I know what you’re saying.”
Tess laughed heartily at that. Angie chuckled, too, though she seemed distracted. Again, a little ridiculousness for a ridiculous situation.
The corner store was a white concrete building attached to an old-school gas station that still used pumps without a built-in payment machine. It was horribly outdated, but still well kept. Inside, the store was chock-a-block with shelves lined with every conceivable item a person on vacation might need, from sunscreen to fly-tying supplies. There was even a shelf dedicated to automotive supplies. Knick-knacks were everywhere; one greeting-card sized plaque read If You’re Lucky Enough To Be On the Lake, You’re Lucky Enough. Sam thought, under different circumstances, that would be the inarguable truth.
He found Frank’s in the condiments section, next to the squeeze bottles of summer’s holy trinity: ketchup, mustard and relish. The girls were over in a dry goods area, popping the lids off various plastic deodorant dispensers and sniffing. He took the sauce up to the counter and was amused to see a handwritten sign on the ancient cash register that read: “If you don’t see what you want, ask us. We might both be surprised.” The elderly woman behind the register rang up the sauce. “Anything else, dear?” she asked.
“Just waiting on those girls,” he said, pointing in Tess and Angie’s direction. “Apparently they need to smell every single deodorant you have.”
“It’s a female thing,” the old lady said. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Angie finally decided on a scent and put it on the counter. Tess followed suit with a Snickers bar. “I don’t recall authorizing that,” Sam said sternly.
Tess flipped him the bird under the counter. “Authorize
this
, smartass.”
After Sam paid and they’d left the store, Angie grabbed the stick from the bag, reached under her shirt and immediately applied it to her armpits. “So much better,” she said. “Now I have to go to the bathroom.” She looked around; a sign in the front window that read “washrooms” pointed an arrow towards the back of the building. She picked up a long, narrow block of wood with the word “women’s” written on it in black jiffy marker, and headed for the door.
Sam gave her an annoyed look. “Again? You just went before we left the cabin.”
Angie looked at Tess, who rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Go ahead,” she said. “We’ll wait.”
Sam watched Angie wander behind the building. “What the hell was that about?” he asked testily.
“You really don’t get women, do you?” It was the first time Sam had seen her go-to-hell grin in what seemed like eons.
“Apparently not,” he said.
“She has to do number two.”
“Why couldn’t she do that at the cabin?”
“Because you’re only supposed to flush the toilet after number two.”
“And?”
Tess clucked her tongue. “Isn’t it obvious? If she flushed, everyone would have known she’d just pooped.”
Sam stood there with his mouth open. The lady behind the register was right: he didn’t understand women.
At that moment, he heard the chime of a bell that indicated someone had just rolled up for gas. He thought it was quaint that the station hadn’t done away with it when they stopped full service. It was just another part of the charm of Lost Lake. He glanced over at the vehicle, a late model Ford F-350, and wondered if the owner would have to take out a second mortgage to fill it up, given the ridiculously high price of gas in the town. It was easily a dollar a gallon more than Alberta.
The driver climbed out of the passenger side and popped the gas cap. As he straightened up and inserted the nozzle, Sam noticed something odd: the driver was almost a head taller than the roof of the truck he’d just stepped out of. A moment later, the man turned to face him. Sam felt like he was in a dream.