The sun was only a rumor of light on the horizon, yet traffic was still heavy by the time I left Orono and got back onto I-394. I didn’t want to deal with it. I was angry with Teachwell, I was upset that I had brought grief to the Dunston family, my back ached, my ankle throbbed, plus I had three loaded guns in my vehicle—and while I had never succumbed to road rage in the past, I figured all the components were there. Instead of taking the risk, I stopped at Shelley’s Woodroast to have a drink and immediately felt guilty about it. Lately, whenever I caught myself having a good time in an establishment other than Rickie’s, I felt like I was cheating. Certainly I would have preferred driving to Rickie’s and letting Nina buy me a drink, and dinner, too, for that matter. Only I knew there could be assassins lurking in her parking lot, waiting for me to show myself. That wasn’t going to change until Teachwell was in custody and I had another chat with DuWayne.
I decided to call Nina and ask her to join me, if not at Shelley’s, then at any other restaurant she fancied. Perhaps I could convince her to return to the St. Paul Hotel with me. It had a great restaurant, not to mention room service—nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Unfortunately, I didn’t remember the actual phone number for Rickie’s—on my old cell it was number 5. I needed directory assistance to place the call. I asked for Nina. Jenness Crawford, her assistant manager, said that Nina had left to meet with her insurance agent and then she was going to make a quick stop at home.
“I expected her back by now,” Jenness said.
I thanked her and hung up. Only then did I realize that I hadn’t memorized Nina’s home or cell numbers, either. For the past two years I had merely dialed 3 or 4. Directory assistance wasn’t going to help; both numbers were unlisted. I was about to call Jenness again when my cell rang. The display screen identified the caller.
“Hey, Nina, I was just about to give you a shout,” I said.
“McKenzie, this is Nina.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Nina Truhler. You remember.”
“Of course I remember. Your voice sounds funny. What’s wrong?”
“Can you meet me at my house?”
“Sure.”
“Can you meet me right now?”
“Nina…?”
“My house is in Mahtomedi. Do you have the address?”
“I’m coming, Nina.”
I was speeding east on I-394, weaving through traffic with one hand on the wheel. My other hand was pressing my cell phone against my ear.
“Nina’s in trouble,” I told Schroeder. “Where the hell are your people?”
“Hang on.”
A few moments later, Schroeder was back on the line.
“I can’t reach my operative,” he said. “Where are you?”
I told him.
“Pick me up.”
From the redwood deck on the back of Nina’s house, you could easily see the eastern shore of White Bear Lake, about twenty minutes northeast of St. Paul. During the day it’s busy with every surface craft you can imagine, and at night lights from the homes along the shoreline and the few boats still prowling the water twinkle like stars. Except in Nina’s house. Not a single light burned anywhere inside. Which was wrong. Nina always kept a light on.
I approached the house from behind, cutting through her neighbor’s yard, slipping from one shadow into another. In the distance, I heard music that grew louder before stopping altogether, and a woman’s laugh, and somewhere a dog barked. The sounds came and went, people settling in for the evening; it was cool enough that most of their windows were closed. I knew Nina’s weren’t. She kept at least one open even in the winter. I stood beneath the window in a pool of black, my back against the wall of her house, and listened and heard nothing.
Nina had played it smart on the phone—of course I knew who she was, of course I knew her address. She was warning me. Teachwell was there, just as he had been in Joley Waddell’s house; he had forced her to call, just as he had forced Joley. I could hear it in her voice. Maybe I wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been for my experience in Highland Park, but there you go. Somebody should tell Teachwell that it’s not wise to call the same play twice in a row. I decided that that somebody ought to be me.