Deadline(145)

            “You found the chip?”

            “Yup. Will Bacon left it where I could find it. Couldn’t believe it,” Virgil said. “He must’ve been up on that ladder when Kerns walked in—he knew what was going to happen, and instead of freezing up, he kept thinking.”

            “Good for him. Goddamnit, makes you proud.”

            “Yes, it does.”

            —

            PURDY SHOWED UP at the clinic, and Virgil outlined what had happened, and said he’d be down to the sheriff’s office in the morning to make a full statement. Purdy said they’d chain Laughton to his bed: “That boy ain’t goin’ nowhere. We’ll truss him up like an Easter ham.”

            Virgil, Johnson, and Shrake stopped at Tony’s for a six-pack of Leinenkugel’s and an everything pizza, then drove back to Johnson’s cabin, where Johnson bitched and moaned about the boat until he had a mouthful of pizza, and Virgil fired up his laptop and plugged in the memory card.

            The sound was tinny—it’d get better with decent speakers—but the picture was very clear, and about the time Jennifer Barns, she of the butt wound, said, “I think we’re in the clear—I talked to the fire chief, and he said there’d be no way to recover the records. I made out like it was a disaster, but told him we’d figure out a way to live through it,” they had them.

            “As long as that fuckin’ Flowers moves along,” Kerns said, as they watched.

            “Flowers can think anything he wants, but if he doesn’t have the records to prove it, we should be fine,” Barns said. “Just keep our heads down and our mouths shut.”

            “Unless they catch Buster,” said Jennifer Gedney. “He knew where the money was coming from. I mean, I didn’t tell him, but he knew.”

            Kerns said, “If we have to, we handle Buster the same way we handled Conley. The same way we handle anyone who talks.”

            “I think we’ve done enough killing,” said Henry Hetfield. “More killing will just get more attention.”

            —

            “WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME you saw something like that?” Shrake asked. “I mean, like, never?”

            The camera had been movement- and voice-activated, and at the end of the recording, the camera shook and then a man’s voice said, “Bacon. Get down out of there!”

            Bacon: “Randy. What’s up?”

            Kerns: “That’s a camera, right? Get down out of there, you asshole. Bring the camera.”

            Bacon: “I . . . I . . . sure . . . Just a minute, I have to unwrap the tape. The camera belongs to Virgil Flowers, Randy. He’s on his way here, he’ll be here in the next minute or so. He’s gonna be really pissed—”

            Kerns: “Get down that fuckin’ ladder and bring that fuckin’ camera, or I swear to God I’ll blow your legs off.”

            Bacon muttered, almost under his breath, but loud enough to be heard by the recorder: “Hurry, Virgil. Hurry.”

            What may have been a hand crossed close in front of the lens, and then there was a flash of electronic noise—the card being unplugged—and the video ended.

            “Oh, Jesus,” Shrake said.

            Virgil sat frozen. “I killed that guy.”

            Johnson said, “No, you didn’t. Randy Kerns did. Don’t go taking on any extra blame, if you don’t have to. You can go crazy doing that.”