The Mortal Groove (33 page)

“He came out of the garage, demanded to know what I was doing with his sister. I told him to go fuck himself. I kept walking across the field where we used to sit. I finally stopped because he wouldn't shut up, must have stood there for almost a minute listening to him yell a blue streak. He told me I was a sick killer. Asked if I was proud of that. Said that people like me deserved to rot in hell for playing along with our evil government and agreeing to go fight innocent people. You get the drift. I got sick of it after a while and told him to go home and play with his toy car, leave me the hell alone. Well, that did it. He rushed at me, shoved me to the ground. He was stronger than I thought he'd be, and scrappy as hell, but I pinned him. I was about to beat the crap out of him when Sue showed up. I guess she heard him yelling at me from her upstairs window. She ordered me off him, so I got up. But as soon as I did, he came at me again. I think that's when he yanked my tags off, although I can't be sure.

“Sue got between him and me, finally got him to back off. He ran off. She was so embarrassed. She apologized over and over again for his behavior. As I was walking her back to her house, her brother sped past us in his piece-of-shit car, honking and cursing. He was a real piece of work. Anyway, I said good night again and then headed for Randy's place. It was a warm night, so I lay down in the grass by the barn, stayed there until sunup.”

Ray listened to the story. Del sounded like a man telling the truth, but there was no way he could be sure. As a defense attorney, he'd met a lot of persuasive liars in his day. “You didn't go anywhere else that night?”

“Nope. I saw Randy come in a while later.”

“What about Ethan?”

“I don't know. He said he stayed until the bar closed.”

“And Larry?”

“No idea. I was dead to the world by the time he said he got back.”

“Are you telling me Larry could have done it?”

“He swears he didn't.”

“And you believe him?”

“I did, at the time. Now I'm not so sure. But you can believe that Larry, Randy, and me were the prime suspects after Ethan. None of us wanted to spend the rest of our lives in prison for something we didn't do. The case went cold. Sure, we all wanted to know what happened to Sue, but not at the risk of our freedom. That's why we've always kept an eye out for someone digging into that old murder case. There are people in that town would would still love to put my ass in jail for her murder.”

“You know that for a fact?”

“I do.”

“And now Larry has abducted my son.”

“Randy told me that there's a warrant out for his arrest on a Colorado murder charge, and of course, if Melanie Gunderson remembers what happened to her, she can ID him, so that's attempted murder on top of the murder charge. Larry's in deep, Ray. Maybe Randy's right. Maybe he has flipped out.”

“That's really what I want to hear about the guy who's just kidnapped my son.”

Del turned the beer bottle around in his hand. “That's why we have to play this carefully. You don't want your campaign manager—or your ex-campaign manager—making the papers because of an old murder case, which then led to your son being abducted.”

“I don't give a rat's ass about the governor's race, I care about Peter!”

“And I get that,” said Del, pushing the bottle aside. “But here's the deal. Randy and I know Larry better than anybody else. If there's any way to talk him down from this, we're the ones who can do it. I understand your concerns. I'm a father, too, but give us some time to see if we can defuse the situation without anybody getting hurt.”

“You think that's possible?”

“Yeah, I do. Absolutely.”

Ray had dealt with criminals all his adult life. If a man had nothing to lose—and that defined Larry Wilton—he was at his most dangerous. If Ray contacted the police and they even made one small mistake, he might never see his son again. But then, there was no guarantee that Del and Randy would handle things perfectly, either.

The waitress came over to the table, asked if they'd like another beer.

“No thanks,” said Del, handing her a ten and telling her to keep the change.

As she walked off, Ray fastened his eyes on Del. “Before you clean out your desk, cancel all my events until further notice. I don't care what excuse you give. Then tell Mar Rios that she's been bumped up to your job.”

“Think about that a minute, Ray. Are you sure canceling your speaking engagements is a wise idea? The press is going to smell blood, no matter what cover story I give them, especially if they also know I've been canned.”

“Just do it. All I can think about now is my son. Now, here's the bottom line. I've been around a long time, Del. Longer than you. I know how to play hardball with the best of them, so listen up because I'm only going to say this once. You've got two days. Call me tomorrow with an update. You better have one. If you

lied to me about any of this and I find out, if something happens to my boy because of you and Randy and your psycho friend, I'll come down on you so fast and hard there won't be anything left of you but a grease stain on a rug.”

 

 

L
arry sat splay-legged in the backseat of the rented Ford Taurus while Peter drove. Every so often Peter would feel something cold touch his ear. A gun. It was Larry's way of making sure he remembered to be a good boy, as Larry put it, which meant to do what he was told and keep his mouth shut. Larry didn't like a lot of extraneous talk, unless he was the one doing the talking.

Peter had listened closely to the call Larry had made a few minutes ago. Every so often Larry would take a slug from the bottle of Jack Daniel's he'd bought at a liquor store in Moose Lake. The more he drank, the more his mood seemed to improve. Peter had no idea who he was or what he was talking about, but the longer the conversation went on, the clearer it became that he was a man running from the law. Jane had been involved with him in some way, and so had Cordelia. Several times it seemed as if Larry was talking to Peter's father. All Peter
knew was that he'd landed in the middle of something bad, with no help in sight.

At first Peter thought Larry wanted nothing more than his car, that he'd let him go as soon as they were out of town, some-place deserted. They'd found that deserted spot, all right, just north of Cambridge, but instead of setting Peter free, Larry had cuffed Peter's hands behind his back and then sat outside next to a tree talking on his cell phone. Larry ate a bunch of candy bars there, too, reading a porno magazine while Peter sweated it out in the front seat. It was only after the last phone call that Peter truly realized what was going on. This wasn't a bad guy hijacking a car, this was Peter being abducted, and that knowledge turned his blood to ice.

It had grown dark by the time they reached London Road in Duluth. They were heading straight for the freeway up to Two Harbors. Peter was keeping track of the odometer readings. Larry probably thought they were in the middle of nowhere, but Peter was familiar with the North Shore and hoped that somewhere down the line, it might give him an edge.

After cruising through Two Harbors, Peter checked the rearview mirror and saw that Larry had screwed the cap back on the bottle and was sitting up. Peter got the feeling they were getting close to their destination. They passed Superior Shores, a re-sort condominium complex, and followed Highway 61 up to Silver Cliff. Once they'd passed through the tunnel, Larry slid over to the left side and stared out the window. The lake was somewhere to the right of them out in the darkness. Most of the smaller resorts were on the lake side of the highway, near the water.

A few minutes later, Larry told Peter to slow down. Once again, Peter checked the odometer. Just over a mile later, Larry ordered him to turn left onto a dirt road. They bumped along in
silence for three quarters of a mile until they came to a small clearing, where Larry told him to stop.

“We're almost home, Petey,” he said, laughing, shoving the back door open. He made Peter stand by the front bumper while he cuffed his hands behind his back again. Switching on a flashlight, he jabbed Peter in the back with it and said, “Now we walk.”

“Where are we going?”

“No questions, just move it.”

They pushed through the brush into the trees. Larry wasn't very good at holding the flashlight steady, so Peter couldn't always see the ground in front of him. He slid into a couple deep water-filled holes and nearly toppled over. All the while, he could feel bugs crawling up his pants legs.

“I don't suppose you brought along any bug spray,” he said. Larry hit him in the head with the flashlight. “Shut up.”

What felt like hours later, but was probably only ten or fifteen minutes, they came to a clearing.

“There she is,” said Larry, washing the flashlight beam over an ancient, completely trashed travel trailer. “Home sweet home.”

When they walked closer, Peter saw that the tires were all flat. The trailer looked almost organic, like it had grown from some bizarre seed. Graffiti covered most of the rusted and cracked exterior. The two windows in the front were both broken.

“It's a Shasta,” said Larry, his voice full of an odd sort of reverence. “My parents owned a Shasta back in the sixties. Course, this one could use a little work. Couldn't believe my luck when I found it. I mean, it's fucking perfect. No rent. No landlords. Lots of peace and quiet.” He pushed Peter into the already open door. They stood in the darkness for a few seconds while Larry fired up a lantern.

The inside of the trailer was even worse than the outside. Not
only did it smell moldy and rank, but the water damage was so bad that part of the roof near where the stove vent had once been was completely caved in.

Peter looked around him and saw that the appliances were all missing. Against the back wall was a long bench. A sleeping bag was tied into a roll in one corner. Next to that were two backpacks. One looked empty, the other stuffed full. A old Coleman stove sat on a counter in what was once the kitchen. On the floor were a couple of banged-up coolers. The only table was a piece of plywood attached to the wall by hinges and propped up at the end by a two-by-four. two folding chairs sat on either side of it and a bunch of porno magazines were spread across the top.

“All the comforts of home,” said Larry, dropping the gear he'd been carrying to the floor.

Peter turned to stare at him.

“First rule of basic training,” said Larry, picking up a baseball bat and tapping it menacingly against the palm of his hand. “Never look the drill sergeant in the eye.”

“What?”

Larry slammed the bat into Peter's stomach, propelling him backward over the coolers.

“Next rule,” said Larry, standing over him. “Speak only when spoken to.”

Peter waited for the pain to subside, then gazed up at him with terrified eyes.

“You need another lesson, boy?”

Peter quickly looked away.

“Next rule. When I ask you a question, you answer and then say ‘Thank you, Drill Sergeant.' ”

Peter blinked. His heart was beating so fast and loud he wasn't sure he'd heard him right.

“Understand?”

“I think so,” said Peter.

“I think so
what?”

“Yes, I understand. Thank you, Drill Sergeant.”

Larry smiled. “Get up.”

Peter struggled off the coolers.

“Sit here.” Larry pulled out one of the folding chairs.

Behind him, Peter could hear Larry fiddling with a zipper. Then something began to buzz.

“Now sit still,” said Larry.

Peter felt the buzzing noise hit the back of his head. He ducked aw ay.

“It's a hair trimmer, asshole,” said Larry, showing it to him. “Now, sit up straight and don't move. Can't have a beard or long hair in boot camp. We gotta get rid of it, clean you up good and proper. Maybe I'll make you look like one a them skinheads.” He laughed.

Peter's eves darted around the dank interior. He couldn't believe this was happening.

“Tomorrow, we start basic training, so you better get a good night's sleep. Oh, and just so you know, you're writing a letter tomorrow. Your sister and your dad don't believe I've really got you. Can't have them thinking ole Larry lied to them, now can I.”

“No. Thank you, Drill Sergeant.”

“Just shut up.”