The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10)

The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10) Page 47

I looked over at the old man. “He seems impressed,” I said.

“You are a caution, Dyson. Won’t that be dangerous, though, going over t’ Dave’s place?”

“Danger is my middle name. ’Course, my first name is Avoid, and At All Costs is my last name, so … Anyway, I don’t think the cops are looking for us that hard. Considering how many people know we’re here, they could have scooped Dave and me up with a butterfly net by now.”

“In that case, bring back some more beer, will ya?”

Skarda did not live in anything a city boy would call a neighborhood. It was just a string of houses between the county road and the forest. We parked the Jeep Cherokee in his driveway. Skarda’s place had a woman’s decorative touch, yet there was no sign that a woman actually lived there. He opened some windows and went to the refrigerator. He found a couple of Leinenkugels. It wasn’t Summit Ale; still, it was a damn sight better than the swill the old man drank. Skarda led me to the deck on the back of his house that had a nice view of a stream that cut through the forest.

While we drank the Leinies, Skarda told me his story. It wasn’t particularly original. He was merely another casualty of the housing crisis. His company laid off ten percent of its workforce. Then another ten. Then another, until his seniority could no longer protect him. He had a couple of weeks’ salary coming, plus what seemed at the time to be a generous severance package. Then there was unemployment. However, Skarda also had mortgage payments, car payments, credit card bills, health care payments he now had to make himself because he lost his coverage when he lost his job, plus gas, oil, and insurance for the car, phone, cable, trash collection, utilities, electricity, and groceries.

“When we needed a new car, I got credit,” Skarda said. “Never had no trouble getting credit for anything, and when we reached the limit on our credit cards the company just raised the limit. Then came the depression—don’t fucking tell me it’s just a recession.

“Liz was wonderful,” Skarda said. “She never got depressed, at least not that I ever saw. Not even when we were wondering how we were going to pay this bill or that bill. She figured it would all work out somehow. Gradually, though, as things became more serious, more precarious, and I was spending more and more time going out with Roy and Jimmy, going out to the bars and the strip club, watching Claire perform, getting drunk—it was all my fault, I know that. One day Liz up and left. Walked out of the house. Didn’t pack. Didn’t say anything. Just walked out. I called her parents and spoke to her over the phone. I begged her to come back. She said it would be better for both of us, easier if we went our separate ways for a while. Not a divorce. Just—it was just until things got better, she said.”

“Do you think things will get better if you steal?” I asked.

“Money was our only problem. The lack of money. I get money, she’ll come back.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said nothing. Instead, I asked to borrow Skarda’s facilities. We went upstairs, found clothes and bathroom supplies, and packed them in suitcases. I laid out a change of clothes on Skarda’s bed. Afterward, he went downstairs while I took a shower. I’m told that aboard U.S. naval vessels sailors are allotted only two minutes of fresh water. Anything beyond that is considered a “Hollywood shower.” I showered like I was a three-time Oscar winner, long and lavishly.

While I rinsed my hair, I made plans that would get me on the road by tomorrow afternoon. Afterward, I dressed and made myself look pretty. I left the bedroom and walked to the carpeted staircase. It was while descending the staircase that I saw Skarda. His back was to the sliding doors that led to his deck. His hands were up. There was a frightened expression on his face. I didn’t blame him for the expression. A man was standing in front of him and pointing a handgun at his heart. I would have been afraid, too.

I crept down the staircase as quietly as possible. To his everlasting credit Skarda did not look at me, did not speak. He just stood there listening as the man said, “I’m sorry, Dave. I really am. I need the reward money.”

I crossed the living room, coming up behind the shooter. Along the way, I picked up a long-nose lighter that Skarda had used to start the logs in his fireplace.

“You know how things are,” the shooter said.

I grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked backward. At the same time, I jammed the working end of the lighter against his throat.

“Drop the gun,” I said. I gave him an extra-hard poke. “Drop it.”

He dropped the gun. It bounced against the carpet. I shoved him hard away. His knee hit the edge of a chair and he fell. I picked up the gun, a double-action, 9 mm SIG Sauer. Nice.