Smoke and Mirrors

106

The limousine floated along nearly deserted county roads, while Albert recorded the confession Finch had demanded.

“That was almost perfect,” Finch said, after listening to the second version. “Concise and covers all of the major points.”

Despite the fear that he was about to be killed, Albert was furious that Klein was going to cover his ass using Albert’s dead body.

Albert knew where they were going before they turned off the paved road, through the woods to where the landscape opened up like a battlefield. The limousine rolled among great tortured clumps of gathered tree limbs toward the lone equipment-storage structure, which was visible against the levee that ran north to south like a great wall.

The limo driver got out and opened the gates, then drove into the parking lot surrounding the structure, leaving the gates standing open.

“You don’t have to kill me,” Albert said weakly.

“In fact, I do,” Finch told him. “Those are my orders. How I accomplish the task is up to you. I can torture you and roll your fat carcass into a hole and let you smother as we push dirt over you, or I can put you to sleep painlessly. I don’t dislike you, Albert. There’s nothing personal in this. I believe the mitigating factor is that you and Jack Beals robbed and murdered customers of Herr Klein’s casino for profit. Pretty shortsighted-liquidating future customers-don’t you think?”

Albert didn’t know how they knew about his side enterprise, but seeing that they had found his stash, and knew about Beals’s stash, there was no sense denying it.

“How much did Mulvane take?”

“He wasn’t in on it.”

“Was Murphy involved?”

Albert shook his head.

“Just you two?”

Albert nodded. He was thinking about the gun locked up in his desk, and wishing Tug had come along. With Tug, there would be hope. Without him, there was none.

The limo stopped ten feet from the door. The driver and the two thugs climbed out. The driver used a key to open the personnel door and stepped inside to turn on the lights. Meanwhile, Finch aimed his weapon at Albert. “After you, Albert.”

Albert rolled from the seat and crabbed out of the vehicle, hardly aware of the icy drizzle that stung his cheeks like BBs. When he took a step, he slipped in a slick patch in front of the door and his feet flew out from under him. At the sight of Albert flat on his back and flailing in pain, Finch and the thugs laughed-cruel children delighted by the struggles of a flipped-over turtle. With one of the big men pulling on either of his arms, Albert scrambled to his feet, his pants clinging wetly to his soiled buttocks.