Tin City (Twin Cities P.I. Mac McKenzie Novels) Page 23

  There was an edge to his voice that made Wanda take a step backward. She glanced down at his hand, and her eyes grew wide. He was tapping his thigh with the barrel of the Glock.

  “He’s, ahh … he’s …”

  “Wanda,” I said. “Hey, Wanda.”

  She tore her gaze from the gun and met my eyes. I smiled, going for reassuring this time, hoping Sykora hadn’t panicked her into silence.

  “I’m thinking, we take care of our business with Bruce, maybe we could come back later.”

  Wanda said, “Him and Danny, they got this place on Whitefish Lake they inherited from an uncle or somethin’. Up near Mille Lacs.”

  Sykora said, “Where?”

  Wanda gave him an address and directions. Sykora put his gun away and asked her to repeat it. She did, and he wrote it all down in a spiral notebook.

  “You’re cops,” she said. Her smile returned. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”

  “When did you last see Bruce?” Sykora asked.

  “Are you gonna arrest him? Him and Danny? Cuz that’s cool far as I’m concerned. Kinda solve some problems for me, you know.”

  “When did you last see Bruce?” Sykora asked again.

  “’Round noon today. Frank called and off he went,” she said. “He woulda went with Frank and Danny early this morning, only Brucie, he had to meet with his probation officer.”

  “Have you heard from him since?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know Bruce is at the cabin?”

  “He said he was goin’ there. Him and Frank, they talked on the phone for like, I don’t know, a half hour, and then Brucie, he looked like he was really pissed at someone, he said he was gonna stay the night at the cabin and to not wait up. Like I’m gonna wait up for him. So, you know, it’s like I said before, we’re all alone.”

  “Maybe we should call him, let him know we’re coming,” I said.

  “They ain’t got a phone,” Wanda said, which is exactly what I wanted to hear. “They make calls, they go to this place what’s just down the road.”

  Sykora turned and headed back to the car.

  “Thanks, Wanda,” I said.

  “Hey, you,” she said. She took a step toward me and lowered her voice. “When you come back later, don’t bring him.”

  We were back inside the Neon, working our way to the freeway.

  Sykora said, “So are you going back?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  He smirked as if he didn’t believe me, and I had to resist the urge to pop him one.

  We were on Highway 212 heading north to the Twin Cities when Sykora said, “I’m still trying to figure it out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why you’re here.”

  “I told you. I’m here for Pen.”

  “No, I mean, from the very beginning. Most people would have let it go, what happened to your friends. Most people would have let the police handle it.”

  “Probably I would have, too. Except the fix was in.”

  Sykora hesitated for a moment, like he was selecting his words carefully. He said, “Sometimes you need to make choices. Sometimes you need to let one guy go in order to catch a worse guy.”

  “Is that how you rationalize it?”

  “There are a lot of murderers walking around free.”

  “None that killed any of my friends.”

  “Your friends are special?”

  “Every damn one.”

  His mouth worked as if there was something he wanted to tell me, but apparently he decided to leave it unsaid. Just as well. Time was getting away from us. It was past 9:30. Even without traffic, from the wrong side of the Twin Cities it would take us nearly three hours to get to Whitefish Lake.

  I told Sykora, “Maybe now’s a good time to start talking about what we’re going to do.”

  “I guess that depends on what we find when we get to Brucie’s cabin.”

  “Now that we know where they are, we should arrange for backup.”

  “Backup?”

  “From a much maligned organization called the FBI.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Why not? Kidnapping is a federal offense.”

  Sykora turned in his seat and looked at me. “No,” he said. At that same instant we passed under a light. I caught only a glimpse of his eyes, but it told me everything I needed to know. Sykora was going to kill Frank, and he didn’t want anyone or anything getting in the way. Including me.

  This was my cue to tell him something about revenge. Maybe repeat what the Reverend Winfield had told me. But seriously, who was I to talk?

  Mille Lacs was probably the most important lake in Minnesota if not the biggest. Near the center of the state, it had long been a focal point in discussions ranging from Native American treaty rights to sportsman’s rights to conservation to property taxes to the best place to catch walleye. In the winter, it would take you over an hour to drive across its ice. In the summer, you can’t see where the lake ends and the sky begins. At night, it looks like it’s full of stars.

  Whitefish Lake—not to be confused with Upper Whitefish Lake, or Lower Whitefish Lake, or Little Whitefish Lake, or the other five Whitefish lakes in Minnesota—was located on the west side of Mille Lacs, near Wigwam Bay, so close that at one time it had probably been part of the larger lake. Even now it was pretty good size, about seven hundred acres. A former chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had a place there. But while I knew where the lake was—I pass it when I drive to my own place up north—I didn’t know my way around it, and Wanda’s directions proved less than precise. Eventually we began searching for someone who might give us a more accurate course to follow. Stopping for directions isn’t something I normally do, but we were on the clock. It was already 12:30.

  The lights were still blazing at Big Oak Resort & Cafe, so we stopped there. It turned out to be one of those ma-and-pa operations that made most of its money between Memorial Day and Labor Day renting cabins and boats, selling bait and tackle, and serving food and drinks from a weathered lodge that looked like it had been standing since the Great Sioux Uprising. But that was the outside. Inside was new wood—floors, walls, tables, bar—all covered with a thick shellac that reflected light, making the room as bright as an operating theater. On the wall was a large poster featuring the names and profiles of all the fish catchable in Whitefish Lake—walleye, northern pike, largemouth bass, rock bass, crappies, sunfish, bowfin, bullhead, perch, shiners, suckers. Next to it was a large map of the lake and surrounding area. Sykora made a beeline for it.

  “Gentlemen, you’re just in time for last call,” a woman said from behind the pristine bar. If she wondered what two guys wearing sports jackets were doing in a fishing resort after midnight, she didn’t let on.

  “Couple of Leinies,” I told her.

  She was a slightly overweight woman of about thirty with large brown eyes and reddish-brown hair with bangs, wearing jeans and a Minnesota Vikings sweatshirt. Her smile was infectious, and she reminded me of the kids working the booths on the first day of the Minnesota State Fair, all excited and enthusiastic. I wondered how she’d feel at the end of the season.

  I mentioned, as I maneuvered around tables to the stick, that we seemed to be her only customers.

  “It’s a late Monday evening in May,” she told me. “Weekends have been terrific since the fishing opener, and business will get even better next weekend when they open the bass season. But we don’t do much in the middle of the week until after the schools let out and people start taking vacations.”

  Made sense to me. I took a long pull of the beer.

  “Ask her,” Sykora called from the map.

  “Ask what?” said the bartender.

  “We’re looking for the cabin of a couple of guys we know on Whitefish.” I attempted to sound more casual about it than Sykora did. “Only the directions they gave us aren’t the best. We’re wondering if you can help us out.”

  “Sure.
Who are you talking about?”

  “Danny and Bruce Fuches.”

  “Oh, them.” The smile flickered on her face like a lightbulb that wasn’t sure if it was going to burn out.

  “Have you seen them around?” I asked.

  “They were in earlier, Bruce and some fat guy thinks he’s clever, kept insulting my resort.”

  “What does he have against this place?” I asked. “This place is great.”

  The bartender’s smile returned to full wattage.

  “Not just here. Minnesota in general.”

  “Jerk,” I said and drank more beer.

  “He wanted to use the phone, then got all bent outta shape because he thought I was listening to his conversation. I mean, who cares?”

  “Some people’s children,” I said.

  Sykora stood next to the wall map. He looked amped as if he wanted to run across the room, leap over the bar, and shake the woman by her shoulders. Instead, he asked in a calm voice, “Do you know where we can find them?”

  “Well, here,” the bartender said. She rounded the bar and walked to where Sykora was standing. She stood in front of the map, biting her lower lip while she studied it, then raised a long, delicate finger and pointed at a red square.

  “That’s us,” she said. “Here.” She moved the finger about two inches to the left. “This is the Fuches cabin, at the very end of Little Whitefish Lake Road. Used to belong to old man Sevier. Now, he was a sweetheart.”

  “How do we get there?” Sykora asked.

  “All this between us and them, where Fuches is, all this is steep hills and rocks. So what you need to do, you need to swing way around here”—using her finger as a pointer, the bartender traced a convoluted series of roads—“to here and then drive across to here. This is Little Whitefish Lake Road, where the cabin is. But you want to be careful you don’t take Whitefish Lake Road by mistake, because that’ll take you to way the heck over here.”

  Sykora looked like he was already lost.

  “What’s this?” I traced a thin line that extended directly from the resort to a spot on Little Whitefish Lake Road just short of the Fuches cabin.

  “That’s a footpath, a trail.”

  “Will the path take us to the Fuches cabin?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh. If you don’t mind the walk. See, what a lot of people do, instead of driving out of their way to get here, to get to my place—I have a very nice dinner menu—what they’ll do, they’ll take this trail through the steep hills and rocks and some swamp, too. It’s a nice walk. Couple times a year, we go over, cut down the growth, keep it nice.”

  “We can walk there from here?” Sykora said.

  “Sure. It’s about, I don’t know, a little over a half mile. It’s dark out, but just stay on the trail and you’ll be all right.”

  “Mind if we leave our car in your lot?” I asked.

  “No problem.”

  We walked single file down the narrow path. We had flashlights but didn’t dare use them, instead relying on the modest amount of moonlight that managed to penetrate the overcast sky. It didn’t show us much, but it was enough to keep us from straying off into the thick brush that hugged both sides of the trail.

  “It’s quiet,” Sykora whispered. I waited for him to add, “Too quiet,” but he didn’t, and I started thinking, a guy born and raised in New York City, this must be traumatic for him, a world without noise or lights. There were no sirens, no traffic, no radios or TV, no people and the sounds they make, no dogs barking in the distance—even the crickets hadn’t grown large enough yet to make a racket. And although it worked to our advantage, suddenly I was sorry the night sky was hidden by clouds. Otherwise Sykora would really have had something to see. As it was, the only light visible appeared just as we reached the mouth of the path. It was about 150 yards in front of us and shone through the windows of a small cabin.

  I had brought my binoculars and used them now to give the cabin a hard look. It was old and it was small, no more than twenty feet by twenty feet with a wooden facade badly in need of paint and a tattered shingle roof. The cabin was built on cinder blocks on the side of a hill. The blocks in the back were stacked two high; in the front there were five. The front door and a single window faced Whitefish Lake, with the road cutting between the cabin and the shoreline. There was a wooden staircase without a railing leading to the front door, which was only wide enough for one person. Despite the chill in the air, the interior door was open; light streamed through the outer screen door. There was a second window in the side of the cabin facing us. I studied the windows and door carefully.

  Sykora squatted next to me.

  “What do you see?” he whispered.

  “Nothing. Wait …”

  A large man suddenly appeared in the second window. He rubbed his face vigorously, stretched, moved forward out of sight. I swung the binoculars to the front window. He appeared there, slowly moved to the front door, and leaned against it, looking out.

  “Frank?” Sykora asked.

  “Yes.”

  Sykora moved toward the light. I grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Pen’s in there.”

  “So are guys with guns. Give it a minute.”

  “What for?”

  “I don’t see Brucie.”

  Sykora shook my hand free, but I grabbed his arm again.

  “Wait.”

  Sykora stared at the cabin for a moment, then edged slowly back next to me.

  “I’ll go through the front door. You cover me from the window.”

  “Don’t be foolish,” I told him. “Look at the cabin. Look at how it’s elevated. Standing on the hill, I won’t be able to see above the windowsill, much less give you cover. Plus, we don’t know where your wife is yet—will she be in the line of fire? And we don’t know where Brucie is.”

  “He’s in the cabin. Where else would he be?”

  “Watching the road? Waiting in the dark to shoot us?”

  “Frank isn’t smart enough for that.”

  “Who says?”

  “Listen. Are you listening?” Sykora was speaking with the intensity of a computer salesman hawking the latest hardware. “Frank won’t be expecting us. I know this guy. The most vulnerable mark is the one who’s been to the circus before. He figures he has experience, he figures he’s too smart to get clipped. That’s Frank.”

  “Frank? Or us?”

  “Are you afraid, McKenzie?”

  “You bet your ass I am.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then you’re an idiot. With all my misgivings about the FBI, I never thought they hired idiots.”

  “Pen’s in there,” he said again.

  “Probably. And for her sake, let’s get this right. C’mon. We don’t need to rush this. We can take our time. Watch and wait. See what moves.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. Patience, man. It’s a virtue.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Mr. Mosley.”

  “Fine,” Sykora said, but I knew he wasn’t fine.

  Frank moved away from the door and retraced his steps past the front window and the side window before disappearing again from view. I trained the binoculars on the outside of the cabin and spent long, silent minutes sweeping the yard, hoping to see a shadow move. None did. A tiny hole opened in the clouds, allowing the full moon to light up the yard like a flare. I saw no one. Then the hole closed, and once again the cabin was seized in darkness.

  I whispered, “There’s a stand of trees on the right. I’m going to move over there, see if I can get a better view of the cabin and the yard. Wait here.”

  “Do you have your gun?” Sykora asked. He was gripping his own Glock with both hands.

  I slipped the Beretta out of my holster, showed it to him.

  “Good,” he said. “Cover me.”

  “Wait.”

  But Sykora was done with waiting. He was on his feet sprinting toward th
e entrance to the cabin. I muttered a few obscenities and followed him.

  Sykora ran quickly and didn’t halt until he hit the side of the cabin next to the door with his shoulder. I heard the thud twenty feet away. So did Frank. He popped to his feet. I had been right about the window—I could see only his head and the top of his shoulders. He was looking toward the door.

  Sykora flung open the door and charged through it.

  Frank’s shoulders hunched upward and his head slid to the side as if he were sighting down a rifle.

  My shriek was loud and guttural, a variation on the word “no.”

  Frank glanced my way just as I fired onetwothreefourfivesix rounds at him through the cabin wall. I saw his head spin, and then he dropped from sight.

  I dashed to the front steps, up the steps, and through the door, my Beretta leading the way. The living room was cramped with ancient furniture, and fishing gear hung from nails hammered into the cheap wood paneling. Frank was lying on his side in the middle of it, clutching his belly with one hand and reaching for a sawed-off shotgun with the other. Sykora was kneeling on the floor in the far corner in front of Pen. He had set his Glock on a sofa and was hugging his wife. She was naked, her wrists and ankles bound to a wooden chair with duct tape.

  Frank heaved himself forward a half inch and tried again for the sawed-off. I fell to my knees next to him, grabbed the barrel of the gun, and slid it across the floor to the screen door. It hit the door and wedged it open half a foot. I pivoted on my knees, the Beretta in front of me, searching for Brucie. He wasn’t there.

  Frank looked at me like he was trying to remember my name.

  “Fuckin’ McKenzie,” he said.

  In the corner Sykora pressed his forehead against Pen’s and chanted her name. Her eyes were red. There was a slight bruise behind her left eye, and the skin around the tape was red and raw. The severe light from the poorly shaded lamp on the table next to her caught her face, and for a moment I could see what she would look like when she was much older—still beautiful, with the kind of aristocratic grace that you gain only from conquering extreme adversity.

  Pen said, “I’m okay, I’m okay. He didn’t hurt me—yet.”