Final judgment

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Troost Lake was an oversized pond, home to no one. Lake Lotawana was the real deal: a pastoral haven far enough from Kansas City to feel like you left. Mason didn’t expect to find any bodies floating there, but that didn’t make him feel any better about making the trip. The case was swallowing him whole, the dark water lapping against his chin. He had an image of Abby turning her back as the water closed over his head.

The first twenty miles were easy. They took Highway 71 south, picked up I-470, and got off at Colbern Road. A handful of quick turns later, they were on Lake Lotawana Road, passing the Lake Lotawana Police Department, which served and protected the two thousand people who lived in homes surrounding the lake, according to the brightly lit sign outside the station.

“Look at that map,” Mason said, pointing to the GPS screen. “The lake looks like Italy and we just crossed the border from France. Ernie Fowler’s house is south of Rome. The way this road curves around, we are going to have to knock on his door. There’s no way we can get there without being seen.”

“You want to see his house from the outside in or the inside out?” Blues asked.

“I’ll settle for outside. My breaking-and-entering days are behind me.”

“Too much conscience is a bad thing for a man in our line of work,” Blues said.

“Maybe I need a new line of work. What about the lake? If we can find a boat, we can check the house out from the water.”

“I’ve got a pair of night vision binoculars in the trunk. But I didn’t have room for the boat.”

“We can borrow someone’s boat,” Mason said. Blues looked at him, eyebrows arched. “We’ll put it back and I’ll leave gas money, all right?”

“Need a new line of work, my ass.”

Lake Shore Drive circled Lake Lotawana. Side streets named with single letters led from Keystone to the homes at the water’s edge, the entrances to each flanked by long, curved brick walls that gave way to a split-rail fence, the fence connecting to the brick wall at the next side street. The wall and fence added an air of privacy to the residential area though they wouldn’t keep anyone out.

Ernie Fowler’s house was on L Street. They drove south on Keystone along the west flank of the lake, pulling onto the shoulder just beyond the entrance to L Street, not wanting to risk that someone was watching from the house for any unexpected traffic.

“Let’s see how close we can get without being shot at,” Blues said.

They took their time, Mason letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, Blues scanning the street with his night vision glasses. The street was laid out in a T shape with houses on both sides of the vertical leg and a row of houses on the horizontal bar at the top of the T. These were the lakefront houses and Fowler’s was at the south end, cut off from his neighbors by a row of evergreens grown to privacy heights.

There were no streetlights and all of the houses were dark, late February not a popular time at the lake. The houses were spread apart, divided by mature stands of trees.

Like the others, Fowler’s house was dark on the front, though they could see a glimmer of light through the front windows coming from the back of the house. The sedan and the minivan were parked in the driveway. The hoods of the cars were still warm, as was the hood of an SUV that was parked in front of the house next to Fowler’s. Back in the car, Blues studied the GPS screen.

“There,” he said. “The next road over is M. Let’s hope somebody left their boat in the water.”

M Street was laid out in the same fashion, the houses blacked out. There were no cars on the street or in the unattached carports. Blues picked the empty carport for the house at the top of the T, giving him a straight shot to Keystone. He backed in, unscrewed the bulb in the car dome light, and grabbed his night vision binoculars.

The yard behind the house was deep and wide open before reaching a forested tree line and sloping gently down to the water. Wooden stairs had been cut through the trees, leading to a dock where they found an aluminum fishing boat with its motor lifted out of the water.

“Just what we’re looking for,” Blues said. “Won’t be too noisy or noticeable. No running lights either. That’s even better.”

“The god of the slippery slope is smiling on us,” Mason said.

“Hey. No one is making you do this but you. I could be home with my feet up watching SportsCenter, you just say the word.”

Mason took a deep breath. “You’ll be the first to know. Let’s go.”

Blues kept the boat quiet, revving the engine barely above trolling speed. They crossed to the east side of the lake before turning north, hugging the eastern shore until they were directly across from Fowler’s house. A light was on inside the room adjoining the deck, probably the den or kitchen, Mason guessed. The light was bright enough that they could make out the shapes of people standing on the unlighted deck.

“How far away are we?” Mason asked Blues when they cut the engine.

“Five hundred yards, give or take,” Blues answered, studying the deck through the binoculars. “Looks like a party. Kelly and Brewer are there. I don’t recognize the others.”

“What’s Fowler’s phone number?” Mason asked, opening his cell phone.

“You sure you want to call right now? What if Fowler has caller ID? What are you going to say after you say hello?”

“You’re right. Give me the glasses.”

He adjusted the focus, capturing Kelly, Brewer, and Al Webb huddled at the deck rail. Even in the green glow of the night vision, there was no mistaking them. He swept the deck to see who else was there. The driver of the sedan stared back at him through his own binoculars, which he quickly lowered, rushing to Webb’s side and pointing at the boat across the water. Webb snatched the glasses from him and looked for himself.

“Shit!” Mason said, ducking into the bottom of the boat. “We’re busted. Get the hell out of here!”

They’d been seen, though there was no way to know if they’d been recognized, the distance and darkness in their favor. Blues started the engine and flattened himself against the seat, steering with one hand while watching the bow rise as the boat picked up speed.

The shape of the lake worked against them. Webb had a perfect view of their escape. If they cut back across the lake to M Street, he would know where to find them and would probably get there before they did. If they continued on their present course, they would have to get out on the east side of the lake with no way to get back to the west side and their car other than a walk that would take the rest of the night. He made his choice, angling the boat hard toward M Street.

Mason tied the boat to the dock and followed Blues to the line of trees at the edge of the backyard. They listened for the sounds of another car or anything else that didn’t belong on a deserted street but heard nothing.

“Be quick but don’t hurry,” Blues told Mason, pointing toward the car.

They cracked the doors and slid in, closing them as quietly as German engineering made possible. Blues started the ignition, keeping the headlights off, just as a car skidded to a stop at the entrance to the street, blocking their exit. The bodyguards from the Galaxy Hotel got out carrying guns. They signaled to each other, pointing at the BMW, the only other car on the deserted block. The added shadow of the carport made it impossible for them to see Blues and Mason inside the car, though the engine was running.

The brick wall and split-rail fence bordering the entrance to the street, together with the car parked in the intersection, had Blues and Mason bottled up. The fence was the obstacle of least resistance, though the odds were good that they would be shot before they got that far. They would be even easier targets if they tried to escape on foot.

“I don’t suppose BMW equips these cars with guns,” Mason said.

“Nope,” Blues said. “Should have brought my pickup. Got a nice shotgun on the rack be the perfect equalizer for these boys.”

“Any ideas?”

“Ever play bodyguard pinball? Car doors make great flippers. When we get close enough, I’ll floor it. Stay down and be ready.”

When the bodyguards reached the end of the driveway, Blues shifted into drive, letting the BMW roll out of the carport. The bodyguards took aim and inched forward, lined up so that they would be on each side of the car as it passed.

In the same instant Blues stomped on the accelerator and hit the high beams, blinding the bodyguards. Mason and Blues flung the car doors open as they sped past, catapulting both bodyguards into the air before they could fire a shot.

Blues jammed on the brakes and they got out. Neither bodyguard was conscious, though both were breathing. Blues picked up their guns and their wallets, taking their driver’s licenses. He ran back to the lake and threw their guns into the water. When he came back, he handed Mason their driver’s licenses.

“These names mean anything to you?” he asked Mason.

The one who had worked Mason over at the hotel and picked up Fish’s coat was Bud Tenet; his partner was Frank Naughton.

“No, but with the phony IDs in this case, these probably aren’t the names their mamas gave them.”

Mason rifled their pockets until he found the keys to their car and a cell phone. Blues parked their car alongside them while Mason used their cell phone to call 911 and report that there were two drunks passed out on M Street.

They passed the Lake Lotawana police station as a cruiser pulled out, siren sounding and lights flashing, an ambulance right behind it. They were northbound on Highway 71 when Mason’s cell phone rang. It was Kelly Holt.

“How was dinner?” she asked.

“Nice and quiet.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“Really?”

“Really. See you tomorrow,” she said.