“You better bring plenty of cash, then, because I’m going to be thirsty.”
I glanced at my watch. 11:24. I took a deep breath and let half out slowly just like I was taught on the police academy firing range. “Ain’t nothing to it but to do it,” I said.
It wasn’t much of a prayer, yet Bullert said “Amen” just the same.
*
The old man was waiting for me when I returned to the Jeep Cherokee. “I want to make this right,” he said even before I climbed behind the steering wheel. “There’s gotta be a way to make this right.” His voice was filled with both pain and determination. He had missed his chance to behave like a human being and was now seeking redemption. “What can I do?”
“Exactly what I tell you when I tell you,” I said, even though I knew he didn’t have a chance; there would be no redemption. When the feds swooped down to grab up Brand and the Mexicans, they were going to take him, too. I didn’t like the idea very much, but better him than any of the others.
*
County Highway 23 was where Bullert said it would be. I followed it northeast until we reached Buyck, pronounced “bike” according to a sign just outside of town. We passed Vermilion River Tavern, which looked like a red barn with a large liquor sign attached, and the Pumpkin Shell Gift Shop, which looked like, well, a gift shop, before catching County Highway 24 heading north. A street sign conveniently labeled it Lake Crane Road. I said the name out loud. I also spoke the names of the Sportman Last Chance Café and Facowie Lodge as we passed them as well. Each time the old man looked at me, a confused expression on his face.
“Are you nervous, Dyson?”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’re talking to yourself.”
I thought about it for a few miles and decided, you know what, the old man’s wrong, I’m not nervous.
How is that possible? my inner voice asked.
I guess I’ve been doing this sort of thing far too long, I told myself.
Scotts Seaplane Base was on County Road 425 just like the map said. I passed it just as Brand had said. I ignored the turn for Rocky Road and kept following 425 until we came to a narrow channel that looked is if someone had carved it out of the woods with a plow and left it at that. I announced my turn.
“What?” the old man asked.
“We’re turning down the dirt road that leads to Brand’s seaplane base,” I said.
“I know that.”
“Just wanted to see if you’re paying attention.”
We drove half a mile before coming to a clearing.
“Two men carrying automatic weapons flanking each side of the road,” I said. “They look Hispanic.”
“I see ’em,” the old man said. I could barely hear him, though, over the sound of my inner voice.
Are you nervous now?
I stopped the Cherokee in the center of the clearing and shut down the engine.
“Deputies James and Williams are here,” I said softly. “They’re leaning against their cruiser on my left and looking bored. There’s a Chevy Malibu parked next to them. It’s empty. There’s a wooden shack to the right about the size of a garage. Doors are open. Looks like barrels of aviation fuel inside. There’s a Subaru Forester parked in front of me near the lakeshore. There’s someone inside; I can’t see who. A seaplane, single engine, white with a blue racing stripe, serial number N2-something is tied up at a long wooden dock. It looks like a six-seater, but what do I know? Brand and a Mexican gentleman are standing between the dock and the SUV. Fenelon is two paces behind them like a good little serving boy.”
“What are you doing?” the old man said. “Dyson, what?”
“Something bothering you, old man?”
“You are.”
“Really? I’d think you’d be more concerned about the guys with the machine guns.”
I got out of the Cherokee, leaving the door open, and moved toward Brand and his companion. The old man did the same. The two Hispanics holding the road came up behind us until they were even with the back bumper of the car. I wasn’t particularly concerned about them. After all, money wasn’t changing hands.
“Hi, John,” I said. “Who’s your friend?”
Brand answered by pointing to a blue and white checkered picnic blanket spread out on the ground. Carefully arranged on top of the blanket were four Kevlar vests, three Avtomat Kalashnikova obraztsa 1947 assault rifles, eight loose magazines, two blasting caps, and what looked like a block of modeling clay. I stepped over to the blanket and inspected the merchandise like I knew what I was doing.
“It’s all here,” I said.
“We”—Brand nudged his companion—“didn’t have Semtex 10. I hope C-4 will do.”
I looked at the brilliant blue lake. In the distance I could see two speedboats racing toward us, the noise of their engines still out of range.
“Just fine,” I said.