The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10)

The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10) Page 51

I anchored the pontoon as Jimmy suggested and swam around it a half-dozen times, loosening my muscles and clearing my head. My plan was simple and nearly complete. I’d return to the cabin in a little bit. Together, the Bandits and I would pick a target, I’d make an argument for the need for enhanced firepower, Roy would name his gunrunners, I’d sneak away and call Bullert, and then I would drive home. With luck, I’d be at Rickie’s in time for happy hour. Simple. Yeah, right.

The pontoon boat had a number of cushions arrayed on top of lockers that contained all manner of life jackets, ropes, a couple of paddles, fishing equipment, and suntan lotion. I slathered a palmful of the lotion over my body after I took my swim and stretched out across the back cushion. I was only going to rest my eyes. Instead I slept for over an hour. I was so concerned I would get sunburned that I rolled over on my stomach and slept for another half hour. Afterward, I swam a few more laps. Just for fun I slowly circled the lake in the pontoon. There was only one other cabin that I could see. I returned to the dock, tied off the boat, and climbed the stairs to the deck. A woman stepped out of the cabin carrying a tray of hamburger patties for the grill. She was a healthy-looking girl and so stereotypically Minnesotan with her pale skin, short blond hair, and blue eyes that she could have posed for the brochures extolling the state’s scenic wonders that the tourism office sends out.

“Hi,” she said. “You must be Dyson. Dave told me about you, although—I thought you’d be taller.”

“Dave?”

“I’m Elizabeth Skarda, Dave’s wife. Call me Liz.”

“Liz, what are you doing here?”

The question seemed to surprise her. She set the tray on top of the picnic table. “Dave said I could come over…”

“Did he tell you what we’re planning to do?”

“Yes. It sounds very exciting.”

“Who did you tell?”

“What do you mean?”

I turned toward the door. “Dave,” I shouted. I walked across the deck and went inside the cabin. Dave was standing next to Roy, who was standing next to the old man. The three of them were watching as Jimmy put the finishing touches on his map.

Skarda turned to look at me. Before I could speak again a pretty voice interrupted. “Dyson,” it said. “There you are.”

Jill was standing at the kitchen table with a knife in her hand. She was using it to slice wedges of pie and lift them from the tin onto paper plates. Josie was behind her, opening plastic bags filled with hamburger buns.

“Did you enjoy your swim?” Jill asked.

She was wearing sandals and a short yellow sundress with a khaki scarf tied around her thin waist. She looked like a million bucks. Hell, she looked like the gross national product of Venezuela. Her smile was so bright that it hurt my eyes to watch her.

“Fine,” I said. I was confused. What did Jill have to be so gloriously happy about all of a sudden?

“Have some strawberry-rhubarb pie,” she said. “We brought it down from the Chocolate Moose in Ely. Roy and I went there together for brunch after church.” She repeated the word—“together”—speaking it the way some people say “love.”

I took the pie from her outstretched hands and ate a forkful. It was mighty tasty. While I chewed, she sidled up to me and spoke softly. “May I speak to you for a moment?” she asked. “In private?”

“Sure.”

I set the remnants of the pie on the table and followed her into the master bedroom. I could see Roy watching us out of the corner of my eye, and my internal alarm systems climbed to Defcon Three. We stepped into the room, and Jillian closed the door. She leaned against it, her hands behind her back. I sat down on the bed, thought better of it, and stood again, circling the bed until it was between us.

“I want to thank you,” she said. Listening to her voice—it was the most I’d heard her speak since I arrived, and I noticed for the first time that it had a sweet, rhythmic quality that reminded me of woodwinds.

“For what?” I asked.

“For beating some sense into Roy.”

“Excuse me?”

“He told me what you did. He told me what you said. He told me that he loved me more than his own life and that he was so very sorry it took you punching him in the mouth for him to realize it. He said he was glad that you punched him and said the things you said, too, because it reminded him that I was the only person in the whole world that he cared about and that we were a team and that he would never hurt me again, not ever. He said it was me and him against the world and while he might get angry at the world, he would never again get angry at me.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” I said.

“Anyway, I just wanted to thank you because, well, you kinda saved my marriage.”

No, no, no, my inner voice chanted. Don’t tell me that.

“It doesn’t work this way, you know,” I said aloud. “Roy might be contrite now, but he’ll fall back into his old habits. They always do.”

“You’re wrong, Dyson.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t know anything about love, do you, Dyson? Love is unconditional.”

No, it isn’t, my inner voice insisted.

Jill replied as if she had read my mind. “My love is unconditional,” she said. “I’m going to tell you a secret. I’ve never told anyone else because I was afraid they would laugh at me. You won’t laugh, though, will you, Dyson?”