The Last Kind Word Read Online Free PDF Page A

and Bakery in Hinckley, about halfway between the Twin Cities and Duluth. Because of its location, Hinckley had been a popular tourist trap since World War II. Travelers traditionally stopped there for a pee break, to purchase petroleum by-products, stretch their legs, or grab a quick bite. Since ’48, Tobies had been the main beneficiary of this tradition, at least until the fast-food chains set up franchises across the street. It was crowded—it was always crowded. Admittedly, the food wasn’t all that memorable, the service was what you would expect in a tourist town, and the congestion was exasperating at best. On the other hand, Tobies bakery served astonishing caramel rolls; they were so light, sticky, and sweet that I swear to God, they could kill a diabetic in thirty seconds flat.
    I had to remove Skarda’s handcuffs before we went inside. After I did, I showed him the Glock that I concealed beneath my shirt and reminded him that I was an exceedingly desperate man.
    â€œYou don’t need to worry about me, Dyson,” he said.
    â€œThen I won’t,” I said, although I didn’t mean it.
    Tobies had a bakery, restaurant, coffeehouse, and lounge, plus banquet and meeting facilities in different buildings that seemed to be connected by Velcro. We entered through the bakery. I exchanged bills for change and found the telephone. Skarda pumped the quarters in, but I stopped him before he could dial.
    â€œWho are you calling?” I asked.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œAre you calling your family? Because that’s the first place the cops’ll look for you. They might already have a tap in place.”
    â€œWe have prepaid cell phones. We only use them for business and then we toss them away.” Skarda grinned. “I really do have a crew. We really do know what we’re doing.”
    â€œHow did you get caught, then?”
    â€œHow did you?”
    He had me there.
    â€œWe’re just a couple of John Dillingers, we are,” I said.
    Skarda placed his call. I positioned myself next to him so I could hear what was spoken through the receiver.
    â€œHello,” a male voice said.
    â€œHello, Dad?” Skarda said. “It’s Dave.”
    â€œDave?”
    â€œYeah, Dave.”
    â€œDave’s not here.”
    The exchange made me laugh so loudly that people passing through the lobby turned to look, which is exactly what you want when you’re the object of a police manhunt, people staring at you.
    â€œDammit, Dad, this is your son David speaking,” Skarda said. “You know what, let me talk to Josie.”
    â€œJosie’s not here.”
    â€œWho the hell is there?”
    â€œEveryone’s laying low. You’re in trouble, boy.”
    â€œTell me about it.”
    â€œThe escape was on the TV. The Star Tribune got a story up on its Web site. They say this fella you’re with, this Dyson, Nick Dyson, they say he’s dangerous, a career criminal, that he’s robbed banks and armored cars and shit.” Skarda glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “I don’t think they care that much ’bout you, but they sure want this Dyson fella. If you ain’t done it yet, you gotta get shy of him, boy. Get as far away from that psycho as you can.”
    Skarda took a deep breath and said, “Dad, the man is standing right next to me. He’s listening to every word you say.”
    There was a long pause on the other end of the line before Skarda’s old man spoke again. “Well, you shoulda said somethin’ cuz now I feel bad.”
    â€œDad, I’m bringing him to the cabin.”
    â€œThe cabin?”
    â€œYou know, the cabin.”
    â€œOh, oh yeah—the cabin.”
    â€œTell Josie. Tell her that I owe the man some money. Will you do that?”
    â€œJosie?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œJosie’s not here.”
    â€œDad, I’m going to hang up. Tell Josie