Escape Clause

29

Shrake had called Jenkins, who had been getting up anyway, so both the BCA thugs met Virgil and Mattsson in Jon Duncan’s office at BCA headquarters. Duncan himself was at a meeting to discuss security at the state fairgrounds, trying to figure out what might blow up, if anything might. The Secret Service wanted the state to hire septic system inspectors to put cameras down all the water lines, but the state was pleading poverty.

“If I was involved in that particular disaster, I might go looking for a security-guard job at the Mall of America,” Shrake said.

Jenkins asked Mattsson, “Blankenship’s brother hates him? What’d he do to his brother?”

“Both Brad Blankenship and his brother, George, were interested in the same woman, one Ellen Frye of Henderson, Minnesota. I talked to her yesterday. She’s a hot little number, but not entirely what you’d call a one-man woman,” Mattsson said.

Shrake said, “Ah. The brothers became competitive.”

“If it was only that, there might not have been any trouble,” Mattsson said. “Ellen Frye sees that Brad is not such a good risk, and so she slides on over to George. One thing leads to another, she gets pregnant, and George does the right thing and marries her. They’re married for two days when a DVD arrives in the mail, from Brad. Seems that she and Brad had done a little experimentation on camera. Even worse, it wasn’t a selfie porno. There was a cameraman in the room. George is an unhappy man right now.”

“It’s exactly this kind of thing that can create stress in a family tree,” Jenkins said.

Virgil raised a finger. “I’m as interested in porno gossip as the next guy, but uh… any hint that Blankenship might carry a gun? You know anything about his biker friend? I’d hate to run into some cop-hating Nazi without seeing it coming.”

They all looked at Mattsson, who said, “I ran the biker-name is Dougie Howe-and he’s been picked up a few times on dope charges, small amounts of weed and small amounts of heroin, and twice for DUI, plus a boatload of speeding tickets. That’s about it. No violence on the record. He runs a home-based motorcycle customizing business called Harley Heaven. Blankenship is the guy we have to worry about. He’s flashed guns a few times, but never pulled a trigger, as far as we know.”

Shrake asked, “Armor up?”

Virgil said, “It’s really hot.”

“I don’t think we’ll need it,” Mattsson said. “A Sibley County deputy told me Blankenship’s a puncher, not a shooter.”

Jenkins said, “Yeah, fuck it. Who’s driving?”

–

They went in two cars: Virgil’s 4Runner and Shrake’s truck. Mattsson rode with Virgil and said, “Alvarez is out of the hospital. She looked worse going in, but wasn’t actually as bad as Frankie.”

“Frankie’s gonna be hurting for a while,” Virgil said. “She can’t find a comfortable way to sleep.”

“I know-but don’t take it out on Blankenship. You really do have to be a little careful here.”

“I already got the lecture from Jon,” Virgil said. “I’ve also got the TV people hanging on me about the tiger thing. They haven’t figured out that Zhang is connected, but they will. I gotta get back on that, but I want to do this one, too. I want to be there when you get him.”

After a moment, Mattsson said, “You know, the only reason Blankenship is getting any attention at all is because you’re a BCA agent and the whole question of why Frankie was beaten up. We know the answer to that, and it doesn’t have anything to do with you. Or Frankie. They got the wrong woman. Ordinarily, an assault, even a bad one, isn’t going to pull in four BCA agents.”

“I know, I know. But when it’s all said and done, Frankie’s still hurt-and then, there’s the firebomb last night.”

“Yeah. The firebomb. You agree that it’s possible that the firebomb could have come from the tiger job, if it was aimed at you at all.”

“Possible. I want to see what Blankenship has to say about that. I want to see his face.”

–

Dougie Howe lived in a neighborhood of ranch-style houses a few blocks from the University of Minnesota’s golf course, where Virgil had whiled away some time as a bad golfer: he’d always preferred team sports to solo games like golf or archery. Howe’s house was visible from two blocks away. It didn’t exactly have a bluetick coonhound lolling in the shade of a short-block Chevy engine that hung from a sassafras tree in the front yard, but it was over in that direction, with bits and pieces of motorcycles lining the driveway and scattered around the front yard. A bumper sticker on the side of the mailbox said, “Forget the Dog, Beware of Owner.”

A red Ford pickup was parked at the curb in front of the house next to Howe’s, and Mattsson said to Virgil, “That’s Blankenship’s truck. He’s here.”

“Good,” Virgil said. “We can tie it up here.”

Shrake called on Virgil’s cell, which Virgil switched over to the speaker: “Who’s gonna knock?”

Mattsson said, “You and me, Shrake. I want Jenkins on the side of the house to the left, because he’s the sprinter among us, and Virgil down the side of the house to the right. Everybody good with that?”

Everybody was good with it.

Shrake and Mattsson walked up to the house. The front door was open, although there was a screen door in front of it. Mattsson pushed the doorbell, which didn’t work, so she knocked on the aluminum screen door, and a man yelled, “C’mon in, whoever it is. I’m in the kitchen.”

Virgil got a phone call: a BCA number. He rejected it for the time being.

Out front, Mattsson and Shrake looked at each other and Mattsson said, “Sure.” Shrake pulled his pistol and held it by his leg, and they both walked back to the kitchen where Howe was sitting at a counter with a little girl, both of them eating bowls of cereal. Howe was a fat man, bald, with a blond beard that had been twisted into a number of pigtails; he wore rimless glasses, a T-shirt, and cargo shorts. He asked, “Who are you?”

“We’re with the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension,” Mattsson said. “Where’s Brad?”

Howe cocked his head back and asked, “Cops? He didn’t say anything about the cops looking for him.”

“Well, we are,” Shrake said.

Howe shrugged and shouted, “Hey, Brad, there are some cops here looking for you.”

Two seconds later, a door banged open in the back of the place and Howe said, “Shit, he ran out the back patio…”

Shrake ran toward the sound of the door and Mattsson ran back out the front door and yelled, “He’s running, he’s running…”

–

Virgil had some problems on his side of the house. He’d been standing near the back corner of Howe’s house when a woman screamed from the house next door, “Dan, Dan, there’s a man, there’s a man, there’s a man looking in the bedroom window.”

Virgil turned that way and a man shouted out the window, “What the fuck?”

Virgil said, as quietly as he could, and still be audible, “I’m a cop and I’m not looking in your window…”

The man looked at Virgil’s long blond hair, the band T-shirt, and the cowboy boots and said, “Bullshit you’re a cop.”

The woman, somewhere inside but not visible, shouted, “Get your gun, Dan…”

At that moment, from the front of the house, Mattsson screamed, “He’s running, he’s running…”

Virgil turned to Howe’s backyard and saw Blankenship bolt across the yard, stepping through ankle-deep water in a child’s plastic swimming pool as he went. There was a chain-link fence across the back of Howe’s lot, and he vaulted the waist-high fence with Jenkins, and then Shrake, behind him. Virgil followed as far as the fence, then thought to turn back to the house, in case Howe might be a threat, but a barefoot Howe had come out on the patio with the little girl. He said to Virgil, “He didn’t say nothing about cops looking for him.”

“How long has he been here?” Virgil asked.

“Since yesterday.”

A man ran around the corner of the house. He was carrying a huge shiny revolver, saw Virgil, pointed the pistol generally in Virgil’s direction, and hollered: “Hold it.”

Howe shouted, “What the fuck are you doing, Dan? These are cops.”

The man hesitated, then said, “Oh,” and pointed the gun at the ground.

Virgil said, “There are three other cops here. If they see that gun, they could kill you.”

A woman jogged around the corner of the house in a bathrobe. She stopped behind Dan, pointed at Virgil, and said, “That’s him, Dan.”

Howe said, “They’re cops, Jane. They’re gonna kill you guys if they see that fuckin’ gun.”

Dan said to the woman, “We better get back inside.”

The little girl said to Virgil, “My dad said ‘fuckin’.’”

“That happens, sometimes, honey,” Virgil said. He heard Jenkins shouting something from what seemed to be down the block, but more toward the front yard. Virgil said, “I better get out there.”

–

He ran back down the side of the house and, in the front yard, saw Blankenship sprinting toward his truck, with Jenkins twenty yards behind. Shrake was out of sight somewhere, but Mattsson was standing near the back end of Blankenship’s truck, raking leaves. The rake had the fan-type thin, wide blades made for lawn care, rather than the heavy tangs of a garden rake.

It worked well enough, though, especially when Blankenship tried to run past her, and she lifted the rake and swatted him in the face. He went down on his back, and Jenkins was on top of him before he got reorganized, flipped him over, and snapped on the cuffs. Shrake came puffing up a minute later as Jenkins and Mattsson were putting Blankenship in the back of Virgil’s truck. Blankenship was bleeding from three fan-shaped cuts on his face.

“What happened to him?” Shrake asked.

“Catrin hit him in the face with the rake,” Virgil said, nodding to the rake that was now lying on the neighboring lawn.

“I’m liking this chick better all the time,” Shrake said. He looked down at his tan pants, which had two-foot-long grass stains on the legs. “I fell or I would have been here for it. Goddamnit, I miss all the fun stuff.”

–

Blankenship was cuffed to the ring welded to the floor in the back of Virgil’s truck. He said, “I’m gonna sue you motherfuckers…”

“Shut up,” Virgil said, as he got in the truck, “or I’ll tell all your friends in Mankato that you got your ass kicked by a woman.”

“She ambushed me,” Blankenship said.

“I’d lie about it,” Virgil said. “Now shut up.”

“I want a lawyer.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Shut up.”

“My face is all cut up. I’m bleeding,” Blankenship said.

“Throw a little dirt on it,” Virgil said.

Mattsson added, “And shut up.”

–

They went by the BCA, and Mattsson picked up her car and followed Virgil over to the Ramsey County jail, where she took Blankenship inside and told Virgil, “Go find the tigers.”

“Yeah. Catrin: thanks. I appreciate what you’ve done.”

He couldn’t decide whether to shake Mattsson’s hand or hug her, but didn’t do either when she simply nodded, stepped back, and said, “Nice working with you, Virgil. Let’s do it again.”