I guided the boat across Pike Bay past the Tower Municipal Airport—Jimmy was excited to see a couple of single-engine planes land—and worked through a wide, meandering channel into the enormous main body of Lake Vermilion. The light wind died away as the sun began to set. The surface of the lake became smooth and quiet; the distant islands turned to shimmering shards of emerald. We hugged the shoreline, following it westward.
Along the way we crossed the wake of a variety of fishing boats, cruisers, and pontoons. The occupants waved at us and we waved at them because that’s what people do in Minnesota. That changed when a boat sped toward us straight out of the sun. There was a badge painted on the bow. The Bandits became desperate for me to turn and run. I refused to alter course. Skarda moved to my side as if he wanted to commandeer the wheel. The boat changed course to pass us on the starboard side. The badge became the emblem of the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources. The boat driver was in uniform—tan shirt, green shorts, and aviator sunglasses. The wind rippled his hair, and I was sure he thought he looked cool.
“Wave,” I said, and the girls did, standing at the bow. The conservation officer smiled and waved back. Three attractive women in swimsuits, you would have smiled and waved, too.
I gave Skarda what I hoped was a steely glare.
“You mutinous dog,” I said. He didn’t respond. “Charles Laughton? Mutiny on the Bounty? Doesn’t anybody here watch Turner Classic Movies?”
“Let me guess,” Josie said. “It’s the only channel God approves of.”
We kept cruising west, bypassing the mouth of Everett Bay, until we reached the public boat landing near the Forest Lane Resort. The old man was sitting inside his fifteen-year-old Chevy Silverado; it was parked next to Josie’s Taurus and Jimmy’s old Cadillac. When he saw the pontoon, he hopped out of the cab and gave us a wave. There was another boat in front of us, so we had to wait. While we waited, I moved the nose of the pontoon close in. Roy jumped into the water, waded to the shore, and climbed into the pickup truck. The stockbroker’s boat trailer was hitched to its rear bumper. When our turn came, Roy expertly maneuvered the Silverado backward until the trailer was in the lake, its wheels underwater. I manipulated the pontoon until its bow kissed the rubber rollers mounted on the rear of the trailer. Everyone left the boat; we connected it to a winch, pulled the boat onto the trailer, and drove the truck up the boat ramp until the trailer was completely out of the water. The pontoon was quickly secured.
“Now what?” the old man wanted to know.
Before I could answer, Daniel waved me toward the cab of the Silverado. “You drive,” he said.
“That, I guess,” I said.
“I’m coming with,” Roy insisted.
“No,” Daniel said.
“Listen, you…”
Roy grabbed his arm. Daniel spun to his right, brought his fist up, and hit the ex-soldier on the point of his jaw. Roy fell against the boat landing’s concrete apron like someone had tossed him out of a second-story window. Claire was the first to reach his side. Roy was conscious but groggy. He said something; I don’t know what. Claire cradled his head in her lap and screamed at Daniel, “You didn’t need to do that.”
I was glad Jill wasn’t there to see it. On the other hand, the stripper was starting to grow on me.
The other Bandits agreed with Claire. Daniel was having none of it, though.
“You people need to go home,” Daniel said. “You need to wise up. Stop pretending you’re something you’re not.” He pointed at Roy. “I promise I’ll bring his wife home safe and sound, and I always keep my promises.” He pointed at me. “Now get in the goddamn truck.”
We found Everett Bay Road and followed it until it became Old Highway 77. It was slow going. The Silverado was willing despite its age, yet we were asking it to lug a wide, 2,800-pound pontoon boat down the road—not to mention the weight of the motor and all that money stashed in the lockers. I couldn’t get the speed up much past fifty miles per hour before the entire rig started to shudder. Several times I asked Daniel where we were going. He had nothing to say until we reached Vermilion Drive.
“Turn right,” he said.
I did. By then the sun was nearly down and the world had turned to a sorrowful gray. The truck’s headlights caught a sign. Vermilion Drive was the local name for County Highway 24.
“Ahh,” I said. “We’re heading back to Brand’s seaplane base.”
“You’re a smart guy, Dyson…” Daniel said.
“You think?”
“But not smart enough.” To emphasize his point, Daniel produced a small-caliber automatic and pointed it at me.
“Really?” I said. “I thought you’d wait at least until we got to Buyck before pulling on me.”
“You knew I had a gun?”
“’Course I did. I’m a smart guy. You said so yourself.”