Little more than a half hour later, the phone’s familiar computer voice tells her to take exit 13 for North Fourth Street.
Hayden Lake? Naziville?
She feels as if a great hook has been buried in her belly and now she’s getting reeled in.
Only twenty-four hours ago she was resolute about not trading herself for Robin Maray, even when he appeared on the verge of being murdered. You never trade yourself for a hostage. A cardinal rule of tradecraft.
But even then she knew that if Emma had been held at gunpoint, she would have opened the door to the panic room.
Now all of Idaho feels like it needs a panic room, and every mile north a step away from whatever safety Lana has ever known.
“Hayden Lake six miles.”
As soon as she sees the sign, Lana thinks it’s her destination. But when she tries to use the phone to signal Jeff or Galina, she finds it will perform only a single function: to lead her to the lair.
To the real horrors of the world.
I’ve seen Vinko in Hayden Lake a few times. It took some traveling but he’s not that far from the ridge where I live on the cusp of Washington’s Coastal Range. We’re almost on the same degree of latitude. The trips took me past great wheat farms in the eastern part of the state. Where they rolled across gentle slopes they looked like Van Gogh’s Wheat Field and Crow writ large. All that wheat could feed so many of the deserving. It will.
As my plans assumed shape, I bought a three-bedroom bungalow with a basement on seven acres near the lake, then made sure to run into him a half dozen times in the past year. Simple exchanges — nods, smiles, that sort of contact. Certainly nothing flirtatious, not until I forced myself to dress for the part this morning. Small town interactions, that was all, but enough to make sure he’d think of me as a local when the time came.
That time is now.
I’m driving another windowless van to his property. Not as new as the Chevy in Baltimore but that might stand out too much here. This is one of those four-wheel-drive vans Toyota made years ago. You still see them in mountain towns. I wanted a vehicle that would look normal, unprepossessing when I drove up. That’s one of the great benefits of being an attractive woman. Men always underestimate you. Even online, if you make a particularly keen observation, the assumption usually is that you’re a man, unless you state clearly that you aren’t. That has, without exception, worked to my advantage. And when they do see you, they are biologically driven to think, if only for fleeting moments, that if all goes well they might just bed you. This is particularly true of better-looking guys, and Vinko, say what I will about him, is not bad looking.
I drive right up to his “NO Trespassing” sign at the gate and shoot off the lock. There’s a proper technique for everything you do with a gun, and I long ago learned to do this without killing myself with a ricochet. As for the report, this is rural America where gunshots are now as common as pine beetles.
Then I drive another half mile and swing around his house. And there he is with his border collie and those goats.
I wave. I can see he’s not happy. I don’t need much from him at the moment. I just need to keep him off guard long enough that he doesn’t pull a gun on me before I pull one on him. But I will say, despite all my encounters with men in these situations, only one has actually done that to me. He’s dead. And this morning I’m in a skirt that barely falls to mid-thigh. It’s swishy, flirty. My legs are tan, my neckline low enough to hint at my modest cleavage.
“Hi,” I say with neighborly enthusiasm. “I’m sorry to bother you but I live right over there,” pointing across the lake — I could be pointing at the moon for all the specificity I offer—“and my power’s out and so is my phone. I was wondering if I could use yours.”
There. See. I’ve accomplished my first and most critical goaclass="underline" establishing common ground with him by normalizing his power outage. His face relaxes. Even though my plight doesn’t actually explain the loss of all his electronic devices, much less his batteries and whatever other reserves he might have, he has company for his misery. Attractive company. I sit on my heels to call his dog over. The border collie ignores me, but not his master, not with this much thigh on display. More as I stand. His eyes follow my every movement. Voila! His fears appear to have vanished, anaesthetized by the merest glimpse. But here lies the irony: We do have common ground. It’s what lies between a target and the person aiming a lethal weapon at him.
That’s precisely what I do the instant he wanders within ten feet. I level a small pistol at him. He knows he’s in trouble now and he’s probably beginning to suspect that it goes well beyond not having power.
“I can shoot out both your knees in the time it takes you to blink, so stop where you are.”
I put out the flat of my free hand. He stares at it. Doesn’t respond with words, but he’s no longer moving. Victory number one. “Thank you, Steel Fist.”
The name of his secret alter ego brings the first hint of open panic to his face. His lips part tensely, giving his countenance a square shape I hadn’t noticed in our brief encounters. Whatever hope he had that this might be nothing but a simple robbery has given way to his worst nightmare — of being found out by someone who’s subtly insinuated herself into his life. He probably thinks I’m some kind of crazy liberal out to even the score with a racist. He should be so lucky.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He’s got game, I’ll give him that. But I tell him not to waste his breath. “I’m your guardian angel. Can’t you tell?” I jab the gun at him. I’m smiling. He’s not. His jaw is too busy dropping for that. That is not a figure of speech: his mouth falls open until I’m staring at his bottom row of molars.
I pull a plastic handcuff out of my skirt pocket. “I’m going to watch you cinch your ankles together. If you don’t do a first-rate job, I will kill you right now, but I really don’t want to do that. I actually have big plans for you.”
I do, but he doesn’t have to be alive for them to work. I spare him that detail. “Put them on tight.”
His dog sniffs me, then never takes his eyes off me. “Tell him to go away.”
He gives it a hand signal. It backs up. Clearly, the dog senses something wrong, but he’s a herding dog. What’s he going to do? Nip at my heels? Round me up?
Vinko finally takes off his boots and puts the cuffs on, cinching himself.
“Now put your hands behind your back.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not doing—”
I shove the muzzle into the soft flesh under his chin. “I will shoot your face off and leave you sucking dust through your snot holes if you even try to say no one more time.” Then I whisper, as though I’m sharing a secret: “I’ve done it before.”
The great Steel Fist puts his hands behind his back.
I’m nimble enough to hold my gun against his spine and slip the male end of the cuff into the female. We women really can multi-task. I yank hard.
“Tell your dog to herd the goats into the barn.”
“Biko, barn.”
His voice remains impressively strong.
“Lie down.”
He obeys.
I search him thoroughly. Nothing but a little pocketknife on his key fob, but used dexterously, he could have freed himself.
The dog, to my amazement, closes the barn door after herding the goats inside. “Tell him to stay over there. He’s got creepy eyes.”
Vinko orders his dog to sit.
“Get up, Stinko.”