Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [128]
‘‘Too dumb to live, as they say,’’ said Volont. ‘‘Fired the damn thing from the front seat. Lucky it didn’t kill him.’’
Apparently the backblast from the LAW rocket had taken out the car window behind it, and most of the blast had vented that way. Most. Enough had remained to light off the inside of the car and burn the back of Borcherding’s clothing off.
‘‘To bust out Herman Stritch?’’ I asked. ‘‘How in the hell did he think . . . ?’’
Volont held up his hand. ‘‘Cops found out he wasn’t trying to bust anybody out,’’ he said. ‘‘He thought he knew where they were. He was trying to kill them.’’
‘‘You gotta be kidding,’’ said Hester. ‘‘Why would he want to do that?’’
‘‘Well,’’ said Volont, ‘‘I imagine he was already feeling the effects of the morphine when the cops spoke with him. He claimed that Mrs. Stritch had told him that Herman was talking to the Feds.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘No way he could have spoken with Nola Stritch.’’
Those of us who knew better got a little pale. The bogus message we’d sent via e-mail could count as having ‘‘talked to Mrs. Stritch.’’ Yeah, it sure could.
‘‘People actually hallucinate on morphine, don’t they?’’ said Hester.
‘‘Well,’’ said Volont, ‘‘what he said sure isn’t going to be admissible, for that reason.’’
Piece of cake. All a few of us had to do now was convince the world that Borcherding was nuts. As soon as he came out of it.
‘‘Oh,’’ said Volont. ‘‘The best part . . . the rocket was a British model LAW 80. Just like the ones at Wittman’s farm.’’
That I’d expected. Finally.
All of which left us with the fact that something had happened to Nancy, and we didn’t know what. Or where, or who the threat was, or why, or anything else.
‘‘So,’’ I said. ‘‘Nancy . . .’’
‘‘Unless there were two or more people trying to get her,’’ said Hester, ‘‘I think her car being gone is a good sign.’’
‘‘Me too,’’ said George.
‘‘Possibly,’’ said Volont. ‘‘Which has her running, probably on a predictable path toward Iowa, probably eliminating herself.’’
‘‘Eliminating herself?’’ asked Hester.
‘‘Getting herself killed,’’ said Volont.
‘‘How so?’’ I asked.
‘‘Because,’’ he said, ‘‘Gabriel is very good at what he does.’’
‘‘Just because he was born there . . .’’ I said.
‘‘Oh,’’ said Volont, ‘‘he maintains contacts.’’
‘‘But why would he be at Rumsford’s funeral?’’ asked George. ‘‘Isn’t that a lot of a coincidence?’’
Volont’s eyes looked upward, beseechingly. ‘‘Because, Agent Pollard,’’ he said, patiently, ‘‘he wasn’t going to the fucking funeral. He was tracking the fucking newspaper lady, and he decided to have her done in an area where he knew the right fucking people.’’
I was beginning to like Volont, in spite of my loyalty to George.
‘‘So,’’ I said, ‘‘you think there may be several people working her?’’
He didn’t so much shake his head as flick it left and right, holding up his hand at the same time. ‘‘No. We don’t know how many. He won’t do it himself.’’ He smiled. ‘‘Not at this stage. He’ll hire it done.’’
The phone rang, and I picked it up. It was the RCMP, for Volont. I started to get up to leave the room, but he gestured for us all to stay.
‘‘McGwinn,’’ he said in a warm voice. ‘‘Surprised they still let you work . . .’’
He filled the chief inspector in very rapidly, very accurately. They both apparently knew Gabriel well. After the initial briefing, Volont said, ‘‘Oh, by the way, I’ve just come across a part of the Bruggen Shipment.’’ He paused. ‘‘No. Just a small part.’’ He paused, then said, ‘‘I think so . . .’’ and looked at us, gesturing politely toward the door. We could take the hint, and left.
Well, I thought, Volont sure is a lot more concerned