Dagger Key and Other Stories

“Cash is good.” Avery folded the bills and tucked them in his shirt pocket.

Shellane grabbed a shopping basket and stocked up on cold cuts, frozen meat and vegetables, soup, bread, cooking and cleaning necessities, and at the last moment, a home-baked apple pie that must have weighed close to four pounds. He promised himself to eat no more than one small slice a day and be faithful with his push-ups.

“Get these pies made special,” Avery said as he shoveled it into a plastic bag. “They’re real tasty.”

Shellane smiled politely.

“Might as well give you one of these here.” Avery handed him a leaflet advertising the fact that the Endless Blue Stars were playing each and every weekend at Roscoe’s Tavern.

“That’s my band,” Avery said. “Endless Blue Stars.”

“Rock and roll?”

“Yeah.” Then, defensively, “We got quite a following around here. You oughta drop in and give a listen. There ain’t a helluva lot else to do.”

Shellane forked over three twenties and said he would be sure to drop in.

“If you’re looking to fish,” said Avery, continuing to bag the groceries, “they taking some pike outta the lake. I can show you the good spots.”

“I’m no fisherman,” Shellane told him. “I came up here to work on a book.”

“You a writer, huh? Anything I might of read?”

Shellane resisted an impulse to say something sarcastic. Broillard’s manner, now turned ingratiating, was patently false. There was a sly undertone to every word he spoke, and Shellane had the impression that he considered himself a superior being, that the Gas ’n Guzzle was to his mind a pit stop on the road to world domination, and as a consequence he affected a faux-yokelish manner toward his patrons that failed to mask a fundamental condescension. He had bad luck eyes. Watered-down blue; irises marked by hairline darknesses, like fractures in a glaze.

“This one’s my first,” said Shellane. “I just retired. Did my twenty, and I always wanted to try a book. So…”

“What’s it about,” Avery asked. “Your book.”

“Crime,” said Shellane, and tried to put an edge on his smile. “Like they say—write what you know.”

It took him until after dark to settle into the cabin, to order an Internet hook-up, to prepare and eat his dinner. Once he’d finished with dessert, he poured a fresh cup of coffee, switched on his laptop and sent an email that prevented a file from being sent to the U.S. Justice Department. The file contained a history of Shellane’s twenty years as a thief, details of robberies perpetrated and murders witnessed and various other details whose revelation might result in the indictment of several prominent members of Boston’s criminal society. It was not that effective an insurance policy. The men who wanted to kill him were too arrogant to believe that he could bring them down, and perhaps their judgment was accurate; but knowing about the file had slowed their reactions sufficiently to allow his escape. He was confident that he would continue to stay ahead of them. However, this confidence did not afford him the satisfaction that once it had. It had been many years since Shellane had derived much pleasure from life. Survival had become less a passion than a game he was adept at playing. Lately the game had lost its savor. Apart from the desire to thwart his pursuers, he was no longer certain why he persevered.

He was about to shut down the computer when he heard a noise outside. He went into the bedroom, took the nine-millimeter from his suitcase, and holding it behind him, went out onto the porch and nudged open the screen door. A slim figure, silhouetted against the moonstruck surface of the water, was moving briskly away from the cabin. Shellane called out, and the figure stopped short.

“I’m sorry,” a woman’s voice said. “I was out for a walk. The lights…I didn’t know the cabin was rented.”

“It’s okay.” Shellane stuck the gun into his belt behind his back and pulled his sweater down over it. “I thought it was an animal or something.”

“Aren’t many animals around anymore,” said the woman as she came into the light. “Just squirrels and raccoons. People say we’ve still got a few wolverines in the woods, but I’ve never seen one.”

She was slender and tall, most of her height in her legs, with long red hair gathered in a ponytail, wearing jeans and a plaid wool jacket. Early thirties, he guessed. A pale country Irish face, with a pointy chin and wide cheekbones. Pretty as a morning prayer. Faint laugh lines showed at the corners of her olive green eyes. Yet she had a subdued air, and he suspected that she had not laughed in a while.

“I’m Grace,” she said.

“Michael,” said Shellane, remembering to use his temporary identity. “Guess you’re my neighbor, huh?”

She gestured toward the lake. “Three cabins down.”

Being accustomed to city paranoia, it surprised him that an attractive woman—any woman, for that matter, would tell a stranger where she lived. He had assumed that following the introduction she would retreat, but she stood there, smiling nervously.