Good question.
A few minutes later, they were gone. Skarda and I were leaning on the redwood railing that enclosed the deck, my coffee mug balanced on the top plank. The deck was about six feet above the ground yet seemed higher because it faced a hill that angled downward for about a hundred feet to the lake—Lake Carl, it was called. There was a wooden staircase that led to a wooden dock that jutted out into the lake with a pontoon boat moored to one side and a small fishing boat with a 25-horse Johnson tied up to the other.
“Do you want to go fishing?” Skarda asked.
“I don’t think so.” I took a sip from my coffee mug. “Tell me, why did Roy get all bent out of shape when I asked him about his assault rifle?”
“He doesn’t want anyone to know where he got the guns.”
“He didn’t even tell you?”
“Nope.”
“That’s because he’s chickenshit.”
“No, no, he’s not, Dyson. I know you two don’t get along…”
“Listen, kid.” Skarda was only a decade or so younger than I was, yet for some reason I thought of him as a kid. “I have never met a man who beat his wife who wasn’t a coward at heart. All right? You want to know why he refuses to tell you about the guns—to save his sorry ass. If you guys get popped, he’ll trade the intel to the cops for reduced charges or maybe no charges at all while the rest of you go down hard.”
“You think so?”
“Why else keep it a secret?”
Skarda thought about that for a long moment before he said, “You know, when I was arrested, a man from the ATF said it would go easier for me if I told him about the AK-47 I was carrying. I didn’t say anything, but…”
“You could have.”
“If I had known anything. Dammit, Roy.”
“I guess you can’t blame a man for looking out for Number One.”
“Yes, you can.” Skarda tapped his chest. “I can.”
We continued to stare at the lake. I learned later that the lake was just over eighty acres in size, which meant it easily made the cut—in Minnesota a body of water needed to be at least ten acres to be considered a lake. We had 11,842 of them.
“I hate this,” Skarda said. “Waiting, I mean.”
“Do you know where the supermarket is?”
“There’s only one in Silver Bay.”
“Do you have any binoculars?”
“Sure, why?”
“Let’s go watch.”
“Really?”
“I’d like to see the Iron Range Bandits in action. Who knows, I might even learn a thing or two.”
FIVE
From Lake Carl we made our way along washboard gravel and paved county roads through the City of Krueger—Skarda hunched down in his seat so no one would recognize him—and then up to Ely. At Ely we turned east on Minnesota Highway 1 toward Lake Superior, driving sixty-two miles of narrow, twisting, curling, climbing, and plunging roadway that took my breath away. Forget the scenic wonders of the Superior National Forest it bisected—it was a road built to excite motorcyclists and sports car fanatics while terrifying motor home and bus drivers. Driving it in winter must have been exhilarating, to say the least. When we reached the sparkling great lake, we turned south and followed the highway five miles to Silver Bay.
Silver Bay was a company town built in 1954 for the employees who were hired to process the taconite that was mined and shipped by rail from Babbitt. It gained notoriety in the sixties when it was discovered that the Reserve Mining Company had been secretly dumping taconite tailings—a potentially carcinogenic waste—into Lake Superior to the tune of 67,000 tons each day. The company didn’t stop, either, until the courts forced them to cease and desist in 1972, and as far as I knew, the tailings were still there. Most of the city itself was located on top of a hill that rose up from the lake. It had been built on an area where the trees and brush had been scraped clear with bulldozers; houses and commercial buildings had been carefully laid out with surveyor stakes.
The supermarket was part of a shopping center located on, yes, Shopping Center Road. The complex had three sides, with all of the storefronts facing a large asphalt parking lot. It was hailed as the largest shopping center north of Duluth when it was first built, although I seriously doubted it still held that designation.
To reach it, I drove down Davis Drive and then took a left, driving between the Silver Bay Public Library and a weathered brown-brick building built into the side of one of the city’s few hills. There was a Silver Bay police car parked in front next to a white flagpole that flew both the U.S. and Minnesota flags. I crossed Shopping Center Road and parked the Jeep Cherokee at the edge of the lot, close enough to watch the supermarket and yet far enough away that I could quickly access any one of three potential escape routes. Cars moved in and out of the lot around us.
“When is the heist scheduled?” I asked.