Two Graves

54

CORRIE SWANSON LEFT THE CABIN AND TOOK THE SHORTCUT over the ridgeline and down the switchback trail to the main road. She had left her father consumed with anxiety, pacing about, issuing a constant stream of unnecessary advice, warnings, and various if-this-then-that predictions. His whole future depended on her and Foote pulling this off—they both knew it.

The woods were cold and barren, the bare branches of the trees knocking against each other in a rising wind. A storm was coming, portending rain or, perhaps, even sleet. She hoped to hell it would hold off until they could go to the police and get them to raid the dealership. She glanced at her watch. Eight o’clock. Two hours.

The trail came out on Old Foundry Road, and she could just make out Frank’s Place about a mile down the road, with its dilapidated sign, the Budweiser Beer neon flickering fitfully. She began walking toward it quickly, along the shoulder of the road. As she drew closer, she could see through the windows the early-morning crowd already ensconced inside, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. She collected herself, then pushed in through the creaking door nonchalantly.

“What can I do for you?” said Frank, straightening up and making a failing attempt to suck in his gut.

“Coffee, please.”

She took one of the small tables and checked her watch again. Eight fifteen. Foote would be here by eight thirty at the latest.

Frank brought over the coffee with half-and-half and sugars. Three sugars and three half-and-halfs made the weak-ass coffee barely palatable. She gulped it down, shoved the mug out for a refill.

“Looks like weather,” said Frank, refilling.

“Yeah.”

“How’re you and your dad getting on up there?”

Corrie tore three more sugars open at once, dumped in the contents, followed by the half-and-half. “Good.” She kept her eyes on the plate-glass window that looked out across the parking area and gas pumps.

“Hunting season starts in a few days,” said Frank, operating in friendly, advice-giving mode. “Lots of hunting up there around Long Pine. Don’t forget to wear orange.”

“Right,” said Corrie.

A car pulled in, moving a little fast, and stopped with a faint screech. An Escalade Hybrid with smoked windows—Foote’s car. She got up abruptly, threw some bills on the table, and went out. Foote opened the muddy passenger door and she slipped into the fragrant leather interior. Foote was dressed in his usual suit, immaculate, but nevertheless looking tense. Even before she could shut the door he was moving, pulling onto Old Foundry Road with a screech of rubber.

“I called the Allentown police,” he said, accelerating. “Explained everything. They were skeptical at first, but I managed to turn them around. They’re expecting us and are ready to get the ball rolling with a warrant if they like what I show them. Which they will.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m just protecting myself. And I think your dad got a bum rap.”

He accelerated further, checking a radar detector clamped to his visor. They were flying down the country road, trees flashing by on either side. He headed into a corner, driving expertly, the wheels whispering a complaint of rubber as they took the turn.

“Oh, shit,” said Corrie. “You just missed the turn for Route Ninety-Four.”

“Damn, so I did.” Foote slowed down and moved to the shoulder to pull a U-turn. He glanced over at her. “Hey, put on your seat belt.”

Corrie reached around by the door to pull out the seat belt, fumbling for the latch, which had somehow slipped down in between the seats. As she did so, she felt a sudden movement behind her, turned partway, and felt a steel arm whip around her neck and a hand stuff a cloth into her face, choking her with the stench of chloroform.

But she was ready.

Hand tightening around a box cutter she’d kept hidden up her sleeve, she brought it up sharply, slicing deep into the meaty part of Foote’s palm and twisting as she did so. Foote roared in pain, dropping the cloth as he grasped at his injured hand. Corrie twisted all the way toward him and brought the blade of the box cutter up against his throat.

“Gotcha,” she said.

Foote did not reply. He was gripping his injured hand.

“Just what kind of an idiot do you take me for?” she said, pressing the edge of the blade deeper into his throat. “Maybe you fooled my dad with your working-class-hero bullshit. But not me. I had you pegged from the beginning. The only honest salesman on the lot, my ass. It was all just too nice and neat and convenient. And that crap about an itemized bill in the safe, for frame-up services rendered? Shit.”

Quickly, before he could recover his wits, she felt through the pockets of his coat and pants, found a heavy-caliber revolver, pulled it out, and pointed it at him.

“So what the hell is really going on?” she asked.

Foote was breathing heavily. “What do you think? A scam. Something a lot sweeter than skimming off a few interest points here and there. I can cut you and your dad in.”

“Like hell. My dad probably started to smell a rat—that’s why you framed him.” She gestured with the gun. “I know you must have figured out where his cabin is. You probably got here early, cased the joint, and saw me emerge onto the main road.” She took a deep breath. “Now this is what’s going to happen. You’re going to drive up to the cabin. I’m going to have this gun trained on you the whole time. First, you’re going to tell my dad the whole story. Then we’re going to call the police. And you’re going to tell them the story. Understand?”

For a moment, Foote remained motionless. Then he nodded.

“Okay. Drive slow. And no funny business, or I’ll use this.” The fact was, she’d never shot a gun in her life. She wasn’t even sure the safety was off. But Foote didn’t know that.

She kept well away from Foote, covering him with the handgun, as he eased off the shoulder onto Old Foundry Road, then made the turn onto Long Pine. Nothing was said as he made his way up the switchbacks.

A hundred feet from the turnoff to the cabin, she gestured with the gun again. “Stop here.”

Foote stopped.

“Kill the engine and get out.”

Foote complied.

“Now. Walk toward the cabin. I’ll be right behind you. You know what’ll happen if you try anything.”

Foote looked at her. His face was exceedingly pale, with beads of sweat despite the cold. Pale and angry. He began walking toward the cabin, dead twigs snapping beneath his feet.

Corrie felt a hot rush of adrenaline coursing through her, and her heart was beating uncomfortably fast. But she’d managed to keep her voice calm, keep any quaver out of it. She kept telling herself she’d been in worse situations—a lot worse. Just stay cool. Stay cool and this will all turn out all right.

Just as they came up to the cabin door, Corrie heard the latch turn. The door opened suddenly, hitting Corrie in the wrist. With a cry of pain, she dropped the gun.

Her father stood in the doorway, looking from Foote to her and back again. “Corrie?” he asked, his face a mask of confusion. “I heard noises. What are you doing here? I thought you were going to town—”

Corrie leapt for the gun, but Foote was quicker. He grabbed it, shoving her roughly back at the same time. Jack Swanson stared uncomprehendingly at the gun as Foote raised it toward him. Just at the last moment, Jack leapt back into the wooded area behind the cabin, but the gun roared and Corrie could tell from the way her father’s body twisted around that the bullet had hit home.

“You bastard!” she screamed, running at Foote, the box cutter raised. But Foote wheeled around toward her, slamming the butt of the handgun into her temple, and abruptly the world shut down.

She came to rapidly, her brain clearing. She had been hastily bound with plastic cuffs, hands and feet, and dumped unceremoniously in the backseat of Foote’s car, where she was propped sideways.

She waited, unbearably tense, straining, listening. She had planned it all so carefully—and it had all unraveled in the space of fifteen seconds. What was she going to do now? What was going to happen? Oh, God, it was all her fault—she should have gone to the police instead of trying to handle it herself, but she was afraid they’d just arrest her father…

Then she heard more shots—two of them in rapid succession. And then silence. It was broken eventually by a gust of wind that started the tree branches swaying, knocking, knocking, knocking.