I grab a tree branch and brush over the area on my side of the gate.
That’s better.
Not likely that man or beast is going to come by at this time of the morning, but my business is going to take a while and this should help deter the curious.
I wipe away all the tire tracks and footprints until I reach the bend in the road, then I toss the branch and return to the BMW.
I get back inside and warm my hands over the vents. 6:36. Better get a move on. I grab the green backpack and put the sledgehammer, the gun, the handcuffs key, the gloves, and the ski mask inside.
I get out of the car and close the door.
Dawn is a smear on the eastern horizon and light is beginning to illuminate the low clouds in alternating bands of orange and gold.
Ok.
I shoulder the backpack and walk out onto the lake, bend down and examine the ice.
About twenty, thirty millimeters thick. Good enough, I imagine.
I trudge back to the car, open the backpack, and put on the gloves and ski mask.
A click of the button and the trunk pops open.
His eyes are wild, his naked body Pollocked with mud, oil, and paint flecks. His legs covered in yellow bruises. He’s been trying to kick open the emergency release lever with his knees.
He’s having trouble breathing. I see that the duct tape is partially covering his nostrils. The sort of clumsy mistake that could have suffocated him.
I rip the tape off his mouth.
“Bastard,” he says, and spits at me.
Save your strength, if I were you,
I lift his legs out and then grab him by the arm and heft him from the trunk onto the embankment. I shove him facedown into the snow, take the knife, and cut through the duct tape at his ankles. I step away from him and remove the Smith & Wesson M &P from my jacket pocket.
He gets to his feet, but he can’t do anything with his hands still cuffed behind his back.
I waggle the gun at him to make sure that he sees it.
“Now what?” he says.
I point at the lake.
“I’m freezing. I want my clothes. I’m freezing to death.”
I bring the 9mm up to his navel and press it against his bruised stomach.
The gun and the ski mask are iconic images of terror. It would take someone of sterner stuff than him to resist this kind of pressure.
“All right,” he says.
I turn him and push him gently in the direction of the lake.
He mutters something, shakes his head, and walks through the frozen snow to the lakeshore.
His body is pale, almost blue white. And he’s a big man. Six foot four, two hundred and fifty pounds, none of it fat. He was a college football player back in the day and he’s kept himself in shape. Five miles on the treadmill each morning and rugby training every Wednesday with the Gentlemen of Aspen.
More grumbling, and he stops when his soles touch the ice. He hesitates. The snow was full of air and not too frigid but the ice is dry, flat, and sticky. It’s cold enough to burn.
“What do you want me to do?”
I’m about to speak for the first time but the words die on my lips. Not yet.
I wave him forward.
“On this?”
I nod and extend the gun.
“Ah shit,” he says but begins walking.
It’s full light now.
The sun advancing over the plains. The moon a fading scar.
Beautiful.
The lake. The trees.
Frost crystals.
Voleries of geese.
Fish in trance.
“Aow!” he says.
Vapor lock. His soles are stuck and he shudders to a halt. Momentum is the key. I give him a shove. His back tenses at my touch and he doesn’t move.
I tap him with the gun.
We begin again.
But the sensation of his powerful shoulder muscle through the glove has made me nervous.
I’m going to have to be very careful when I give him the hammer.
In his freshman year at college he had a charge of assault and battery dismissed (so Ricky thinks) through the influence of his father; and in his senior year he broke another man’s jaw, but that never came to anything because it was on the football field.
He’s strong. He could snap me in half. Would too, given half a chance.
“How much farther? What is this?” he asks and stops again.
I push him.
Although he moves, there’s a little jaunt in his step that makes me think he’s up to something.
Got to be careful in spades.
“What’s with the silent treatment, buddy? Do you even understand English? Are you mute?”
He turns to look at me.
“Huh? Get me? What are they paying you? I’ll give you ten times what they’re paying you. What’s your price? Name it. Just name it. I’ve got the money. A lot of money. Everyone has their price. Tell me what it is.”
Can you run back time? Can you do that? Are you a mage, a necromancer?
“What have you done with my clothes? I want my clothes. I want my goddamn clothes!” he shouts, furious, stubborn.
Naked in,
Even so, when the gun waggles he keeps walking.
“What is this? I want my clothes!”
The echo back over the lake opens the floodgates.
“This is insane! This is crazy!” he yells. “You can’t shoot me, you can’t. You can’t shoot me. You can’t. I haven’t done anything. You got the wrong man. This is a goddamn misunderstanding.”
I’m not going to shoot you. That would be far too easy. That would not give us sufficient comfort in the long years ahead.
“Listen to me, listen to me. I know you’re not mute and I know you can hear me. Say something. Speak. You think you’re being so smart. You’re not. I want you to speak. I’m ordering you to speak. Speak to me!”
You want part of it? How about this: enshrined within the Colonial Spanish penal code is the Latin maxim
“Madness. This is madness. You’ve obviously made some kind of mistake. I’m not loaded. You want to go to Watson, he’s worth a billion. I’ll show you. I’ll show you. He’s got a van Gogh, a Matisse. Him, not me. Dammit, talk to me! Who do you think I am? What is this? Who do you think I am?”
I know exactly who you are.
It’s who I am that’s the mystery. What am I doing here? That one I still haven’t figured out.
He stamps his heel into the ice, flexes his shoulder, turns again.
