Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [130]
‘‘Hello . . .’’
‘‘Jesus Christ, where the hell have you been?’’ It was Nancy.
‘‘Nancy, listen carefully . . .’’
‘‘Don’t you ever do that to me again, damn you, Houseman. I’m gonna get fucking killed up here.’’
‘‘Where are you?’’
‘‘Fairmont fucking Minnesota!’’
‘‘At a Travel King?’’
She stopped in her tracks. ‘‘What?’’ At least she stopped shouting.
‘‘You’re at a Travel King, aren’t you?’’
‘‘Yes . . . How did you know that?’’
‘‘Because the man you think is trying to kill you just called me and told me where you were.’’
‘‘Shit. I thought I lost him.’’ Her voice went up an octave, and began to shake. ‘‘You gotta help meeee, he’s gonna kill meeee . . .’’
‘‘No, he’s not, Nancy. That’s what he told me.’’ Maybe a white lie.
‘‘What?’’
‘‘He’s not going to kill you.’’
‘‘Oh, yeah,’’ came the tremulous reply. ‘‘I’ll just bet.’’
‘‘Give me your number.’’
‘‘It says you can’t call in on this telephone.’’
Shit. ‘‘Okay, just don’t hang up, and listen to me. I’m going to call my office on my walkie-talkie here. You listen to it, but feel free to interrupt anytime, ’cause I’ll keep the phone right at my ear, okay?’’
I took my portable out of the recharger that sat on top of the microwave, and called in.
‘‘Go ahead, Three.’’
‘‘Contact Fairmont, Minnesota, ten-thirty-three, tell them Nancy Mitchell is at the Travel King, at the pay phone, and to get officers there immediately.’’
‘‘Ten-four . . .’’
‘‘Do it on teletype. No radio. You got that?’’
‘‘Ten-four, Three.’’
‘‘There,’’ I said to Nancy. ‘‘Just stay put.’’
I could hear her take a deep breath. ‘‘Yeah. Yeah, I’ll, all right, yeah, I’ll stay here . . .’’
She talked to herself like that for about forty-five seconds. Then I heard sirens in the background.
‘‘They’re coming now,’’ she said.
‘‘Stay on the line,’’ I said, ‘‘and have one of them talk to me.’’
I picked up my walkie-talkie and called the office. I had them make immediate radio contact with Fairmont PD and get me the name of the responding officer. They did, just as he came on the phone.
‘‘Who is this?’’ he asked.
‘‘This is Deputy Houseman in Nation County, Iowa. Who is this?’’
He told me. It matched.
So by 0800 on that bright Tuesday morning, I was up, wired, worried, and getting hungry. I had coffee and started frozen fat-free waffles in the toaster, while the office contacted Hester, George, and Volont.
Just as the waffles came up out of the toaster, blackened but at least hot, the phone rang. I figured it was either Hester or Volont.
‘‘Hello.’’
‘‘You’re so predictable.’’ It was Gabriel.
‘‘I can’t be original this early,’’ I said.
‘‘I’ll bet you’re old and fat too,’’ he said.
Well, nothing hurts like the truth, but I’m hard to bait before noon. ‘‘You’ve been peeking,’’ I said.
There was a pause, for about two beats. ‘‘Let’s not waste time in banter,’’ he said.
‘‘Fine.’’
‘‘Find a way to be happy with those idiots you’ve already got.’’
‘‘Like who?’’
‘‘You know who. Wittman. Borcherding. Stritch. They’re the ones you want, really, and they will satisfy the public and the Zionists.’’
‘‘What about the rest of the people in the woods? The ones who really did the killing?’’ I thought that was a fair question, given the circumstances.
‘‘You never want to meet them,’’ he said. ‘‘Believe me.’’
‘‘I’m gonna have to, I’m afraid.’’
He sighed heavily. ‘‘No, don’t do that. Just make the evidence fit the others. You can do that. Your kind can always find a way.’’
‘‘Sorry,’’ I said. ‘‘You’ve got the wrong man for that stuff.’’
He sighed again. ‘‘I know you can’t possibly have a trace on your phone,’’ he said, ‘‘and I want you to know that when I say this conversation is getting boring, it really is.’’
‘‘Want to tell me why you sent Borcherding to snuff Stritch?’’ I asked.
‘‘That’s need to know,’’ he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice.
‘‘I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t that e-mail I sent you,’’ I said.
‘‘You can’t reach me by e-mail,’’ he said. He thought he was calling my bluff.
‘‘I can when I call myself Nola, and relay through Bravo6.’’
Dead silence.
‘‘Just so you