Part 23:
The keys stay in the ignition. You do not put the keys in your pocket. Do you understand? >> Yes. >> Phone in the cup holder, visible. Ringer on. We will not call, but they will see it and they will not wonder if you’ve hidden it. Okay? Vest is snug. Yes? Good. Drive. Ryan drove. He drove with the radio off. He drove with both hands on the wheel at 10:00 and 2:00, which he had not done since he was 16.
He drove with the heater at a setting that he kept adjusting. Too hot, too cold, too hot, too cold. He thought about Emma and then he made himself stop thinking about Emma because thinking about Emma was going to make his face do things he didn’t want his face to do. He took the exit. He took the turn. He passed the old wooden post.
It really did not have a sign on it anymore. There was just a rusted bracket. He pulled onto the logging road. The road was narrower than he’d expected with overgrown grass running down the middle and ruts on either side from tires that had been there years ago. The pines closed in overhead. The light went green and low.
He counted the odometer. At exactly 440 yd, he saw the clearing open up ahead of him. He saw two vehicles in it, a dark green Chevy pickup and a smaller black sedan. Three men stood in the clearing. None of them was Carl Voss. None of them was Everett Sharp. He stopped the truck. He left the engine running. He waited.
One of the men detached himself from the group and walked toward him. He was tall and broad and he wore a brown canvas jacket and he had a wool cap pulled down low. He wore sunglasses even in the low forest light. He came up to the driver’s side window. Ryan rolled it down halfway. Afternoon. The man said. His voice was calm, almost friendly.
Afternoon. Mr. Hale. Yes. You’re on time. I was told to be. You were. Step out of the vehicle, please. Ryan took a breath. Delia had told him this was all right. Getting out of the truck was within the boundary of the plan. Engine stays on, Ryan said. Engine stays on, keys stay in. We don’t want your truck. Come on out. Ryan got out.
He left the door open. He stood beside the truck. Walk with me, not far, 10 steps. Ryan walked with him, 10 steps. The other two men were still by the green pickup. One of them was leaning against the hood smoking. The other was in the driver’s seat of the pickup with the door open watching. The man in the brown jacket stopped.
Records? In the truck, passenger seat, manila envelope. Stay here. The man walked past Ryan to the truck. He leaned in through the open passenger door. He picked up the envelope. He flipped through it quickly, the way a man flips through a stack of bills to make sure they are all bills. Then he walked back to Ryan.
This is everything? That’s everything. No copies? No copies. You’re sure? I’m sure. Mr. Hale. Yes. If you’re lying to me about copies, I’m going to know about it within 48 hours and I’m going to come to your apartment on Birch Street, and I’m going to come in through the door, whether it is locked or not.
Are we clear? We’re clear. Good. The man nodded once. He walked back to the green pickup. He said something to the man leaning on the hood. The man leaning on the hood straightened up. He took a thick white envelope out of his jacket pocket. He walked over to Ryan. Count it if you want. I trust you. You shouldn’t. Count it.
Ryan took the envelope. It was heavier than he would have thought a stack of paper would be. He opened it. He flipped through hundred-dollar bills. Bank banded. Six bands, $60,000. He had never held $60,000 at one time in his life. His hands were very steady, which surprised him. He nodded. He put the envelope inside his coat.
That’s it, then, the man said. That’s it. You leave the state by end of next week. We check. If you haven’t left, we check harder. Okay. The man started to turn. Ryan heard himself speak. Can I ask you something? The man turned back. He did not look surprised. He looked only mildly annoyed, like a clerk who had almost finished a transaction, and now was being asked about the return policy.
What? Ryan made his face do what it had done in Sharp’s office. A little ashamed, a little frightened. A man trying to understand how scared he should be. How high does this thing go? I’m asking for me. I’m asking because I want to know how far I need to go to feel safe. The man looked at him. Mr. Hale. Yes. That is not information you need further than you know. Less far than you think.
You have an envelope. You have a head start. Use both of them. Does it go past Sharp? The man laughed once. It was a short, humorless laugh. Mr. Hale. Yes. You think Sharp is the top of this? I don’t know. Sharp is middle management. Sharp is the guy who takes a number that’s already been agreed to and make sure it gets paid.
Sharp is not the man who decides how many crates leave a dock in a given month. That number comes from somewhere else. From where? The man looked at him for a long second. Then he shrugged. He shrugged in the way a man shrugs who has been paid, who is given an envelope, and who feels for a moment magnanimous.
