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 â48, Tobies had been the main beneficiary of this tradition, at least until the fast-food chains set up franchises across the street. It was crowdedâit was always crowded. Admittedly, the food wasnât 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 Skardaâs 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.
âYou donât need to worry about me, Dyson,â he said.
âThen I wonât,â I said, although I didnât 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.
âWho are you calling?â I asked.
âWhat do you mean?â
âAre you calling your family? Because thatâs the first place the copsâll look for you. They might already have a tap in place.â
âWe have prepaid cell phones. We only use them for business and then we toss them away.â Skarda grinned. âI really do have a crew. We really do know what weâre doing.â
âHow did you get caught, then?â
âHow did you?â
He had me there.
âWeâre just a couple of John Dillingers, we are,â I said.
Skarda placed his call. I positioned myself next to him so I could hear what was spoken through the receiver.
âHello,â a male voice said.
âHello, Dad?â Skarda said. âItâs Dave.â
âDave?â
âYeah, Dave.â
âDaveâs not here.â
The exchange made me laugh so loudly that people passing through the lobby turned to look, which is exactly what you want when youâre the object of a police manhunt, people staring at you.
âDammit, Dad, this is your son David speaking,â Skarda said. âYou know what, let me talk to Josie.â
âJosieâs not here.â
âWho the hell is there?â
âEveryoneâs laying low. Youâre in trouble, boy.â
âTell me about it.â
âThe escape was on the TV. The Star Tribune got a story up on its Web site. They say this fella youâre with, this Dyson, Nick Dyson, they say heâs dangerous, a career criminal, that heâs robbed banks and armored cars and shit.â Skarda glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. âI donât think they care that much âbout you, but they sure want this Dyson fella. If you ainât done it yet, you gotta get shy of him, boy. Get as far away from that psycho as you can.â
Skarda took a deep breath and said, âDad, the man is standing right next to me. Heâs listening to every word you say.â
There was a long pause on the other end of the line before Skardaâs old man spoke again. âWell, you shoulda said somethinâ cuz now I feel bad.â
âDad, Iâm bringing him to the cabin.â
âThe cabin?â
âYou know, the cabin.â
âOh, oh yeahâthe cabin.â
âTell Josie. Tell her that I owe the man some money. Will you do that?â
âJosie?â
âYes.â
âJosieâs not here.â
âDad, Iâm going to hang up. Tell Josie
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley