35

White Lake

Still Sunday, 23 September

This time Sheriff Albin drives us back to CFS himself.

On the way I tell him who I really am, and give him the names of some people who, while they might not be able to find me, will at least be able to answer questions about me that come up in the future. I figure he deserves to know. And it may come out anyway.

Even leaving aside Albin’s own involvement in it, this case is going to be a mess. Missing body, missing witnesses, Teng’s cause of death unclear—bullet? shark?—with no guarantee it will ever get clearer. The county prosecutor likely to give up chasing Reggie for felony murder after a while and content himself with fraud charges—which won’t be easy to work with either. Something turned up on Reggie’s tour, and his guests who brought firearms broke his clearly stated rules, and on top of that he’ll never get paid. No matter what her percentage is, Palin won’t certify any escrow that links her to Ford.^[69]

So Albin’s a tad stressed. He’s also enough of a justice addict to blame McQuillen and not Violet and me for what’s likely to be a rough year or two, and to be grateful to us for figuring McQuillen out, even if we didn’t tell him we were going to do it.

He takes us down to the marina. Violet and I figure we can say goodbye to Henry and Davey and Jane and anyone else who’s at the outfitters—including Bark the Dog, I suppose—on our way out. Right now we just want to get our shit and leave.

The lodge itself is abandoned. The deputy stationed there gets the key to our cabin, and the four of us walk over together.

The moment I crack the cabin door, though, I can tell something’s wrong. I know the smell of this room pretty well, from lying in the dark and trying to smell Violet’s pussy from fifteen feet away. The smell has changed.

It’s cologne. And not just cologne: it’s Canoe, by Dana. Every mob fuck’s favorite aftershave.

Also there’s a trip wire across the doorway. The door’s leaning into it.

I stop short. But Violet, not realizing what’s happening, and not wanting to run into me, turns sideways and slips around me. Pushes the door open a couple more inches.

I don’t remember the explosion.

★★★

I remember waking up staring at the sky. Turning to see Violet, unmoving, beside me and being unable to see Albin or his deputy at all. I remember wanting to roll over to Violet and check her for a pulse, but passing out again instead.

The next time I wake up I can’t move. Or imagine how I had the energy and freedom from pain to even turn my head before. I try to talk but can’t.

I also can’t figure out why I’m still alive.

Leaving a bomb in our cabin—and another one in our car, I assume—is strictly Plan B material. If David Locano knows I’m near here, he’ll also have a spotter watching the lodge at all times, and a hit team less than ten minutes away.

They should be here already.

What the hell’s taking them so long?