Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [73]
I looked at George, after Al was out of earshot. ‘‘Thanks,’’ I said.
‘‘No problem,’’ said George, ‘‘unless he calls my bluff. That could get interesting.’’
It was Hester’s turn. ‘‘You two’ll look great in fatigues and black ski masks.’’
‘‘Mine,’’ said George, ‘‘will say FBI. His,’’ he said pointing at me, ‘‘will say IDIOT.’’
We were quiet for a few seconds.
‘‘Why in the hell did they shoot Rumsford?’’ asked Hester.
That was the question, all right. We were right back to that. Something had gone really wrong. Big time. What? Whatever could have possessed them to shoot the representative they’d requested, the man to whom they wished to present their side of the problem, the vehicle who was to get their story out? Of all people.
I’m not especially known for either introspection or self-doubt. But this whole thing was beginning to get to me. What was I doing wrong? Honest to God, I never thought they’d shoot Phil. Not in a million years. But they had, and he was dead. Great decision, Carl. Great. Now I thought we should go in and get the whole bunch. If I was right, that’d be 50 percent for the day. They said a good executive was right about 33 percent of the time. Not good odds for my being right. Well, maybe I was just tired. ‘‘Maybe I’m just not too good at this,’’ I said to myself. I was in no mood to argue.
‘‘What?’’ asked George.
‘‘Just talking to myself.’’
‘‘Don’t start that,’’ said Hester.
Al came back about then. His face was red, and he had a disgusted look about him.
‘‘So what’s the word?’’ I asked.
‘‘The AG wants to talk to the governor. They’re going to have to ‘make a far-reaching policy decision,’ or something like that.’’
‘‘Great.’’
‘‘And he said it could take some time.’’
‘‘Well,’’ I said. ‘‘Well.’’ I took a deep breath. ‘‘That’s that, then.’’
George was getting a very worried look on his face. ‘‘Do you want me to call my people?’’
‘‘Not just yet,’’ I said. ‘‘Give me a few minutes.’’ I started to walk toward the perimeter. ‘‘Let’s look the scene over,’’ I said. ‘‘I might have an idea.’’
I had an idea, all right. But it sure wouldn’t stand a vote. We walked in silence toward the perimeter fence. When we got there, I just kept going down the path to the house.
‘‘Where are you going?’’ asked George.
‘‘To get the job done,’’ I answered. ‘‘I believe it’s time for the ‘deceive and detain’ phase. It’ll just take a minute. Anybody want to come along?’’
‘‘The what?’’ George hadn’t spent much time in the Winnebago.
We all were sort of committed to do something. I kept thinking about what Roger had said about guilt building up in Herman Stritch, and how he was about to understand that it was all over. Maybe. But the killing of Rumsford had to have done something in that house.
‘‘The what?’’ asked George, again. A1 answered him this time.
‘‘I think we’re going to go get Herman,’’ he said. ‘‘Looks like we are.’’
So we all continued walking down the lane. Me, Hester, A1, and George. Right by the junk pile. Right past the shed. Right past the TAC people. Right toward Rumsford’s body. Nobody said a word, but the breathing was getting a bit harder as we got closer to the house.
Finally, as we were just about to Rumsford’s body, George said, in a perfectly conversational tone of voice, ‘‘I certainly hope you know what you’re doing . . .’’
A voice cried out from the house. ‘‘Halt! Stop right there!’’
We’d caught them napping.
We stopped. ‘‘You guys stay here,’’ I said. ‘‘Anything happens, take ’em out.’’
‘‘Oh, right,’’ said Hester. ‘‘Like, we huff and puff?’’
I grinned at her. ‘‘Sounds like a plan.’’ I turned back toward the house. ‘‘Herman!’’ I yelled. ‘‘I’m coming onto the porch!’’ I looked at Hester. ‘‘Come with me, and just play along. You’re an insurance agent.’’
‘‘What? Carl, what? What insurance agent are you talking about?’’
We walked past Rumsford’s body, and I glanced