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W
hich way would you pick to die?” Nald panted as he stumbled over a root. Why did there have to be so many trees in the forest?
“Four giant snakes attack you and each gets, like, an arm or a leg, and they pull back and forth, back and forth until your
arms and legs rip off midair and your little stumpy body falls to the ground and you’re like,
ah! ah! ah!
unable to move until one of the snakes bites off your head, or—” He shoved aside a branch. It whipped back and hit him in
the face, nearly taking out his eye. “Or you’re attacked by a huge purple squid thing and it shoots one of its arms down your
throat and you’re like,
urk! urk! urk!
and then the arm grows more tentacles inside you and explodes out your stomach and back all at once?”
“What the fuck are you asking me this for?” Fish muttered from in front.
“It’s a question—”
“I know it’s a question, douchebag!” Fish stopped and whirled, one shoulder down and the other up like that hunchback church
dude. His yellow mesh tank was hanging in strips from the neck, thanks to Bucky, and he had deep scratches all over his hairy
belly.
Nald had always thought that Bucky, as a team whatchamacallit—mascot—was a little wussy. No more, dude. Now, as far as Nald
was concerned, Bucky was one baaad mascot. But if you mentioned Bucky at all, Fish started twitching. Which was why he’d found
a new subject. “Well, I—”
“I don’t need questions! I don’t want questions! Why are you asking me questions?”
Nald stopped to think. They’d come to a little clearing in the woods that was covered in these tall green plants. ’Course,
most plants were green. The morning sunshine was really bright. It shone kinda pretty through the long leaves of the plants,
though. “Well, it’s like talking—”
“D’oh!” Fish screamed. “Of course questions are like talking! What are you, a-a—”
Nald scratched his chest and watched Fish’s eyes bug out even more. If Fish did much more eye-bugging, his eyeballs were going
to fall right out of his head. He decided to help Fish. “A cool dude?”
“No!”
“Bad dude?”
“No!”
“Wicked dude?”
“No! No! No!” Fish screamed, totally losing it. “You’re the biggest, dumbest, smelliest fuckass on the entire planet!”
Nald felt insulted. “Hey—”
Fish flung wide his arms, banging the falling-apart bag of money against a long-leaved plant and knocking it over.
“Why? Why? Why?” he screamed. “Why me? Why am I lost in a fucking forest with a fucking guy, carrying fucking inked-up money
and being fucking attacked by fucking wild animals? How could my fucking life get any more fucked up than this?”
“Well, you could—” Nald started.
“It’s not a fucking question!” Fish bellowed.
“Then why’d you ask it?” Nald bellowed back.
“I didn’t!” Fish screamed, just before he fell over and disappeared into the tall plants. The plants waved frantically, like
they were having a spaz-attack, and then Fish reappeared, still angry. “I can’t fucking believe—”
“Hey,” Nald said. “These plants look kind of familiar—”
“That I took you along—”
Nald plucked a branch. The long leaves looked like a hand with too many fingers. Where had he seen—?
“On a fucking bank heist—”
Nald sniffed the plant.
“When I could’ve—”
“Weed!”
“Huh?” said Fish.
“Weed!” Nald waved the plant branch in front of Fish’s face.
“I know that’s a weed, you dumb—”
“No,” Nald explained patiently. “Not
a
weed.
Weed.
”
Fish slumped his head into his hands. “I’m in the woods with fucking Rain Man.”
Nald got impatient. “Weed. Grass—”
“Grass isn’t a weed,” Fish objected.
“This grass is!” Nald thrust the leaves beneath Fish’s nose.
A look of wonder dawned across Fish’s face. Kind of like the time they’d gone to the topless
and
bottomless girlie show in Superior and a redhead had come out on stage and bent over backward and put her hands on the floor
behind her. A look that said,
The world is a strange and beautiful place.
“We’re standing in a field of weed!” Fish shouted.
“Yup,” Nald said.
“It’s enough weed to smoke for years!”
“Yup,” Nald said.
“It’s enough weed to make us rich!” Fish said, doing a little hopping dance.
“Yup,” Nald said.
“And it’s all ours!”
“Nope,” another voice said, and it was accompanied by the
cha-chink
of a shell being chambered into a shotgun.
Nald slowly turned around.
A short, round woman with long gray braids stood behind them. She had a shotgun at her shoulder.
“That’s my weed,” she said.
Nald started to smile, because she was only an old woman, and besides, most women liked him. But then she fired the shotgun,
busting that thought all to hell.
BOOM!
A whole row of plants lost their heads.
Nald ducked and felt his own head to make sure it was still there.
“Run!” Fish yelled, which was the smartest thing he’d said all day. Maybe all week.
Nald galloped for the woods.
Behind him, the shotgun went
cha-chink
and then
BOOM!
“Head for the highway!” Fish panted. He darted past Nald, even though his legs were much shorter. His garbage bag of money
seemed to have a hole. Tufts of paper cash were flying out behind him, catching on the underbrush and getting trampled underfoot.
“Run!”
Cha-chink. BOOM!
Nald ducked and zigzagged through the trees, heading for the light that meant the highway. He was gulping air.
Cha-chink. BOOM!
A twenty from Fish’s bag plastered itself across Nald’s eyes. He brushed it away into the woods. He was almost at the light—
BOOM!
Nald hit the ditch right behind Fish and kept going. They ran up the small incline to the highway, and Nald passed Fish like
he was standing still. He ran like his feet were on fire. He ran so fast it took him a while to hear Fish yelling behind him.
“Stop! Shit! Stop, man!”
Nald stumbled to a halt, his chest heaving for air and a stitch starting on his side. He turned to look. Behind him, Fish
was on his back on the highway, his arms and legs kicking in the air kind of like a newborn baby.
But that wasn’t what made Nald stare.
No, it was the money he was looking at openmouthed. Because all along the road behind him, for quite a ways, really, was a
cloud of cash. The twenty-dollar bills floated in the air, being blown higher in swirls by the playful breeze, alighting in
the tops of trees like a flock of green starlings and sticking to the gluey asphalt on the road.
Nald suddenly realized that his garbage bag felt light. He looked down at the tattered rag in his hand and opened what was
left of it. One purple-ink-stained bill lay at the bottom. He lifted the bag to peer at it, and as he watched, the bill rose
like a miniature helicopter and flew into the air to dance with its brothers. It looked kind of happy.
Then the cop car drove by.
J
ohn woke when Turner left the bed early the next morning. Thursday morning. Actually, it wasn’t the first time he’d woken.
She’d gotten up several times during the night to visit the bathroom, and each time he’d been aware of her movements, of where
she was in the room and the rate of her breathing. But this time after she came back from the bathroom, she began dressing.
He lay still and watched her. Last night, after they’d made love, after Turner had come so heartbreakingly on him, after she’d
lain against him, recovering, she’d carefully unlocked the handcuffs and freed him. He’d finally been able to put his arms
around her. To hold her close and spoon with her all night, the luxury nearly overcoming him. The cuddling, for him at least,
had been almost as satisfying as the sex.
Now she pulled on panties, slipping the pale pink cotton fabric over her hips and adjusting the band at her waist. She picked
up a white bra from her suitcase and put it on. It was funny how women always bent from the waist to fit the cups over their
breasts when they put on a bra. He could see the curve of her back and the little bumps of her spine as she leaned over. John
watched and found her motion erotic in a tender way. It was a feminine action—putting on a bra—and a very intimate one. Only
when a man was a woman’s lover was he allowed to see her perform that mundane task. It made his heart ache.
Squeaky got up and stretched, his long forelegs braced before him. He yawned loudly, then padded over to greet her.
“Shh,” Turner whispered at the dog. She glanced worriedly over at him in the bed.
A twinge of irritation ran through him. Did she think he was some kind of idiot who’d sleep while she ran away from him? Ran
without even saying good-bye? He waited until she’d finished dressing and had gathered her things. She was pulling the bureau
from in front of the door when he spoke.
“Stay.”
She startled. She really had thought he was still sleeping obliviously. John narrowed his eyes in anger.
Turner glanced at him over her shoulder. “I can’t.”
He watched her soft lips firm. Her cat eyes slid away from him, hiding guilt and some other emotion. His own tightened. “I’ve
been running after you with all the finesse of a Keystone cop. I’ve let you slide through my fingers, turned aside when I
could have caught you, pulled my punches so I wouldn’t hurt you. But now there’s someone else after you who won’t pull his
punches. He wants to kill you, and I’m not going to let that happen.”
“I—”
“Even if that puts your little plans all out of kilter,” he finished, his voice even.
She still couldn’t meet his eyes. “I know that—”
“No, you don’t know.” He levered himself up to sit in the bed. “I’m not playing by your rules anymore, Turner. If you walk
out that door, all bets are off as far as I’m concerned. I’ll bring you down when and where I want. Whether you’re ready or
not.”
“John—”
“Come back to bed,” he commanded. “Now.”
“I can’t.”
“Damn it, Turner, yes you can!” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d lost control of his temper like this. And then he
did: it had been on the phone with Turner, not two days ago. “Don’t give me that crap about your uncle and how Hyman has to
pay. It’s your life at stake now.”
“It’s more than that,” she burst out.
“What are you talking about?”
“This,” she gestured jerkily at stomach height with her hand, “Between you and me. It’s gone beyond Uncle Rusty. That’s why
I have to leave.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“I know!” She was looking a little ragged around the edges. Her eyelids were smudged as if bruised.
“Tell me what the problem is.” He tried to lower his voice and wasn’t altogether successful.
“I can’t do that, either.”
“Turner—”
“I can’t, John!” She sounded wild.
Were those tears in her eyes? John frowned and threw back the covers to rise, uncaring of the fact that he was nude.
“No!” She put both hands up as if to ward him off. As if she feared he might hurt her.
As if she feared
him.
He froze. She might as well have punched him in the gut with that little gesture. “What is it? Tell me.”
“I can’t—” She rubbed her eyes. “I can’t stay with you here, John. I have to leave—”
“For God’s sake, why?”
“Because every time I look at you—” She broke off, staring with wide cat eyes that flayed him open with their pain.
“What?” he whispered.
“I
feel.
”
Then she was gone.
Feel?
Feel what, for God’s sake? What the hell did she mean? John stared at the closed door, debating whether to go after her now
even though he was still naked. But she was already worked up. If he caught her in the parking lot, they’d just have the same
argument, but this time in public. Shit. He ran his hand through his hair. If—
His cell rang shrilly, breaking his trance. John swore. He hunted around the bed and found his trousers crumpled on the other
side. The cell rang again from the case on his belt and he tore it off. Squeaky whined. Shit. She hadn’t even bothered to
take her dog, who, from the way he was pacing, needed to go out.
“Okay, okay,” John muttered to both the animal and the phone. He punched the
Answer
button and tucked the cell between his shoulder and ear as he yanked on his pants. “MacKinnon.”
“Sleeping in?” Torelli drawled.
If he’d been in the same room, John just might’ve taken a swing at the younger man’s smug face. “What is it?”
“We’ve got SpongeBob and Yoda. Sir.”
“About time.” John took two steps and opened the bungalow door. Squeaky nearly knocked him over rushing out. “Where’d you
find them?”
“Actually,” Torelli cleared his throat, “it wasn’t me who pulled them in.”
John grinned tightly. First good news he’d heard today. “Oh, yeah? Then who beat you to it?”
“A part-time sheriff’s deputy from Sawyer, the next county over, was patrolling a back road. He saw these two guys running
along the highway, throwing money into the air and screaming.”
“Into the air.” John craned his neck out the door to look for Squeaky. It’d be just his luck to lose the dog, as well. “They
were throwing the bank money away?”
“Apparently.”
“What are they, insane?” Shit. Where was that dog? There was no sign of him, and the highway was only fifty yards away. John
walked around behind the bungalow.
“I guess. The deputy says they’re covered in bug bites and scratches and they may have been attacked by a rabid badger.”
“Christ. Where did they manage to find a badger?”
“I—”
“Never mind.” John shook his head. “So when will you get a chance to question them?”
Behind the bungalow was a mowed field and then the highway. Squeaky was running back and forth in the field. Thank God. At
least he hadn’t lost the dog.
“Sometime this afternoon, I hope,” Torelli replied. “There seems to be some kind of paperwork holdup over there in Sawyer.
They’re dragging their feet about bringing them to the sheriff’s office here. And they say SpongeBob and Yoda might need rabies
shots.”
“Well, geez, Torelli,” John drawled. “The next county over must be all of—what?—fifty miles away? Any reason you can’t get
off your ass and book on over there?”
There was a short silence from Torelli’s end. “I just didn’t want to step on any local toes. Sir.”
“Good thought,” John conceded. “But the sooner we question these idiots, the sooner we can close this thing.”
“Speaking of which,” Torelli said. “How’re you doing finding the runaway librarian?”
“I’m doing just fine.”
“Don’t need any help?”
“No.” Squeaky came bounding up with something dead in his mouth and plopped his prize at John’s feet. Wonderful. It looked—and
smelled—like a skunk in the greasy stage.
“Because I can still call in the Madison police,” Torelli persisted.
“Shit, no,” John said to both his subordinate and the dog. He grabbed Squeaky’s collar and hauled him away from the dead skunk,
which he clearly considered breakfast. God, dogs were disgusting—
“What?” Torelli sounded startled.
“I said no,” John grunted. It wasn’t easy yanking a Great Dane away from something he wanted. “We’ve been over this already.
No outsiders.”
“But—”
“And call me as soon as you’ve questioned SpongeBob and Yoda.” John took a firmer hold on the collar and pulled. Squeaky sat
down and bowed his head, the collar slipping to right behind his ears and pushing them forward. He looked like a donkey refusing
to move. “They sure as hell didn’t plan that bank robbery, and they might tell you who put them up to it.”
“I thought our theory was that the librarian did it.”
“The librarian’s name is Turner Hastings, and no, we no longer think she masterminded it.”
Silence from the other end.
John stopped hauling at Squeaky but kept his grip on the dog’s collar. Squeaky collapsed in a boneless, but very heavy, heap.
“Torelli?”
“Yes, sir. Can I respectfully point out that you seem to be getting awfully close to this suspect?”
John tilted his head back. The damn dog smelled, Turner had run away from him—
again
—and Torelli was pushing every single one of his buttons. All this before his morning coffee. It was enough to make a big
bad FBI agent whimper. “No. You may not point it out, respectfully or otherwise. I’ll call you after the meet in Madison.
I want some answers by then, got it?”
“Yes, sir. Got it.”
“Good.” John hung up the cell and looked down at Squeaky.
The dog thumped his tail.
John sighed. “Come on. We both need a shower now.” He slapped his thigh.
The dog got up and, after one last yearning look at the odorous carrion he’d bagged, followed without protest. Which was a
good thing, because after they both had a bath, they needed to eat and get on the road to Madison. Today was the day he would
arrest Turner. No matter her feelings.
Or his.