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Authors: John Sandford
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you’ve gotta relax. You’re tighter’n a drum. You look like you’re gonna explode.”
“That’s because I don’t want to spend the next thirty years locked in a closet like some fuckin’ squirrel,” Carmel said.
“They’re locking squirrels in closets now?” Rinker asked.
Carmel had to smile, despite herself, and loosened her grip on the steering wheel. “You know what I mean.”
“Ain’t gonna happen anyway,” Rinker said. “We’ll get this Rolo fellow in a quiet place, explain the situation to him, and get the tape.”
“And kill him?”
Rinker shrugged. “Maybe he’s made three or four copies. If he tells us about two of them, and the third one is hidden somewhere . . . maybe if he’s gone, it’ll never be found.”
“We can’t take the chance that there’s a third one. We have to make sure we can get them all before we do it. Kill him.”
“We’ll scare him,” Rinker said. “I can guarantee that. But there’s no way we can finally be sure.”
“How’ll we do it?”
“Leave it to me. I’ll pick him up with you, tag him, and when he’s alone, I’ll take him. Is there a farm store around here? Or a truck store? Or a big hardware place?”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“We’re gonna need some chain and a couple of padlocks and some other stuff . . .” S OUTH W ASHINGTON C OUNTY P ARK was twenty miles south of St. Paul, a complex of hiking and skiing trails. Only two cars were parked in the entry lot, but their drivers were nowhere to be seen.
“Park down at the end,” Rinker said, pointing. Carmel parked, and they got out. Rinker, carrying her leather backpack, led the way down a trail along a tiny creek, then up a hillside covered with thick-trunked oaks. At the top of the hill, she took a long look around, then led the way off the trail, back into the trees. After a minute, they came to a fence separating the park from a farm field. Rinker turned down the fence, finally said, “Here.”
She stepped away from the fence, knelt next to an oak and probed between two of its roots. The dirt was soft, and came away easily. After a minute, she pulled two automatic pistols from the ground, the dirt still clinging to them.
At that moment, Carmel was aware that she was out of sight of everyone, in a nearly deserted park, with a killer who now had two guns. If Rinker killed her, here and now, who would know, until some hiker way off the beaten path found her body? Rinker could take the Jag and park it downtown. Or who was to say that she hadn’t somehow pre-positioned one of those cars in the parking lot down below?
The whole scenario flitted through Carmel’s mind in a half-second. Rinker brushed dirt off the two pistols, put them in her leather backpack, and said, “You worry too much.”
“I anticipate,” Carmel said.
“Why didn’t you anticipate that Rolo was making a movie?” Rinker asked politely.
Carmel didn’t dodge the question. She grimaced and said, “I fucked up. I knew something wasn’t right. I remember thinking that he wasn’t embarrassed by how he lived now. Wasn’t embarrassed. That was wrong.”
“At least you know you messed up,” Rinker said. The guns clinked in the bag as she hung it over one shoulder. “We need to get some oil. When we get the chains and padlocks. Oil for the guns.”
“Doesn’t burying them . . . sort of wreck them?”
“Yeah, it would if I left them buried for more than a couple of days. In a week they’d be rusted wrecks. Then, even if somebody found them, there’d be no way to connect them to the death of Barbara Allen.”
“So you were just going to leave them.”
“Sure. You can get them for a couple hundred bucks apiece. I just didn’t have time to deal with the airlines and all that.” Rinker glanced at her watch. “Four hours to Rolo,” she said. “We better get back to town.” T HE C RYSTAL C OURT is the interior courtyard of the tallest glass tower in Minneapolis, a crossroads of the Minneapolis
“That’s because I don’t want to spend the next thirty years locked in a closet like some fuckin’ squirrel,” Carmel said.
“They’re locking squirrels in closets now?” Rinker asked.
Carmel had to smile, despite herself, and loosened her grip on the steering wheel. “You know what I mean.”
“Ain’t gonna happen anyway,” Rinker said. “We’ll get this Rolo fellow in a quiet place, explain the situation to him, and get the tape.”
“And kill him?”
Rinker shrugged. “Maybe he’s made three or four copies. If he tells us about two of them, and the third one is hidden somewhere . . . maybe if he’s gone, it’ll never be found.”
“We can’t take the chance that there’s a third one. We have to make sure we can get them all before we do it. Kill him.”
“We’ll scare him,” Rinker said. “I can guarantee that. But there’s no way we can finally be sure.”
“How’ll we do it?”
“Leave it to me. I’ll pick him up with you, tag him, and when he’s alone, I’ll take him. Is there a farm store around here? Or a truck store? Or a big hardware place?”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“We’re gonna need some chain and a couple of padlocks and some other stuff . . .” S OUTH W ASHINGTON C OUNTY P ARK was twenty miles south of St. Paul, a complex of hiking and skiing trails. Only two cars were parked in the entry lot, but their drivers were nowhere to be seen.
“Park down at the end,” Rinker said, pointing. Carmel parked, and they got out. Rinker, carrying her leather backpack, led the way down a trail along a tiny creek, then up a hillside covered with thick-trunked oaks. At the top of the hill, she took a long look around, then led the way off the trail, back into the trees. After a minute, they came to a fence separating the park from a farm field. Rinker turned down the fence, finally said, “Here.”
She stepped away from the fence, knelt next to an oak and probed between two of its roots. The dirt was soft, and came away easily. After a minute, she pulled two automatic pistols from the ground, the dirt still clinging to them.
At that moment, Carmel was aware that she was out of sight of everyone, in a nearly deserted park, with a killer who now had two guns. If Rinker killed her, here and now, who would know, until some hiker way off the beaten path found her body? Rinker could take the Jag and park it downtown. Or who was to say that she hadn’t somehow pre-positioned one of those cars in the parking lot down below?
The whole scenario flitted through Carmel’s mind in a half-second. Rinker brushed dirt off the two pistols, put them in her leather backpack, and said, “You worry too much.”
“I anticipate,” Carmel said.
“Why didn’t you anticipate that Rolo was making a movie?” Rinker asked politely.
Carmel didn’t dodge the question. She grimaced and said, “I fucked up. I knew something wasn’t right. I remember thinking that he wasn’t embarrassed by how he lived now. Wasn’t embarrassed. That was wrong.”
“At least you know you messed up,” Rinker said. The guns clinked in the bag as she hung it over one shoulder. “We need to get some oil. When we get the chains and padlocks. Oil for the guns.”
“Doesn’t burying them . . . sort of wreck them?”
“Yeah, it would if I left them buried for more than a couple of days. In a week they’d be rusted wrecks. Then, even if somebody found them, there’d be no way to connect them to the death of Barbara Allen.”
“So you were just going to leave them.”
“Sure. You can get them for a couple hundred bucks apiece. I just didn’t have time to deal with the airlines and all that.” Rinker glanced at her watch. “Four hours to Rolo,” she said. “We better get back to town.” T HE C RYSTAL C OURT is the interior courtyard of the tallest glass tower in Minneapolis, a crossroads of the Minneapolis
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