Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [134]
‘‘I’ll never forget it,’’ she said. ‘‘He said, ‘You’re getting into something that you shouldn’t. Remember your partner, lady.’ ’’ She stopped. Her eyes started to tear up. ‘‘Then he said, ‘Think about a bullet in your boob.’ ’’
‘‘Did he have an accent of any sort?’’ asked Volont.
She took a deep breath. ‘‘Yeah. Not really an English accent . . . you know how educated Brits talk? That way, but not with the nose, so much . . .’’
‘‘Just what had you done to provoke these people?’’ asked Volont.
Nancy glared at me. ‘‘Oh, just what I said I’d do for you . . .’’
‘‘More specifically, please,’’ said Volont.
‘‘Well, I got to Borcherding. I let him buy me a fuckin’ drink, for God’s sake. Asked him about his stupid rag, and about his computers, and just got the conversation going along. He started to talk about his right-wing opinions, and I guess I got a little mad, and I asked him if he thought them killing Rumsford was justified.’’
‘‘Oh,’’ I said. More than I had bargained for.
‘‘What did he say to that?’’ asked Hester.
‘‘He said that he thought it was!’’ she said. ‘‘That son of a bitch. I told him so too. Told him that he didn’t have to sound so fucking sanctimonious about it. Like he was goddamned proud of it or something.’’
‘‘Oh,’’ said Hester.
‘‘Then it went on for a second or two,’’ said Nancy, ‘‘and then he said, ‘You better watch out, you don’t know who you’re talking to,’ or something like that, and then I slapped him.’’
The surprised laugh I barked out just came, unbidden. I looked at her. ‘‘You don’t do undercover stuff often, do you?’’
‘‘It’s not my fuckin’ fault, Houseman.’’
As soon as Sally showed up, we placed her in charge of Nancy, to see that she was undisturbed with her shower, and to get her any communication services she needed. Just before Nancy and Sally headed to the shower rooms, Volont stood.
‘‘You’re Sally?’’ he asked.
She looked up at him. ‘‘Yes.’’
He stuck out his hand. ‘‘I’ve heard a lot about you. My name is Volont.’’
While Sally and Nancy were occupied, we all started in on the sandwiches the Maitland city officer had brought up.
‘‘It wasn’t him,’’ said Volont, eating a hamburger.
‘‘It wasn’t?’’ asked George.
‘‘No. Jacob Nieuhauser’’—he swallowed—‘‘is about six feet two, about two hundred pounds. He has a midwestern U.S. accent, with a little bit of southern drawl he picked up in the Army.’’
‘‘Good description,’’ I said. ‘‘That’s just what he sounds like on the phone.’’
‘‘I’ll get the description of the man to the RCMP,’’ he said, ‘‘and see if it fits anyone they know.’’ He paused. ‘‘These are really very good hamburgers,’’ he said.
George looked happy about that. It meant that Volont was in a good mood, or at least getting there. George wasn’t out of the woods yet, but the wolves were falling behind.
We had to keep it quiet, among us. The real reason for transferring Nola back to the Nation County jail. The official reason was that we had to do extensive interviewing with her. That would help too. There was always the chance that she could provide the names of the real shooters in the park.
Sally and Nancy came flying around the corner, Nancy’s hair so wet that she was leaving a trail of spray. Thankfully, she was dressed.
‘‘Why didn’t somebody tell me about Borcherding and blowing up the jail? I gotta get the hell out of here, I can talk to him . . . Christ’s sake, the man fuckin’ loves me . . . He’ll talk to me. I can get the whole front page . . .’’
The woman was resilient, I’ll give her that. She insisted, so she left.
I got to break the news to Art that Nola Stritch was coming back to Nation County. He had to put on extra security. He didn’t like it.
Then it was time for serious planning.
Volont felt that Gabriel would bite. He wasn’t sure that he’d actually, as he put it, ‘‘scale the walls himself,’’ but he did think that he’d be close enough to take direct control of any operation to spring Nola. We agreed. After all, he’d not been in the woods with his subordinates when the killings took place. He’d not been at