Chapter 20
Judd looks at his watch. Clay lowers the binoculars and checks the time on his dash. He starts his truck and throws it in reverse. Judd is a seasoned cop—Clay will have to tail him from some distance. Shouldn’t be a problem since Clay knows exactly where his father is headed.
“This is the greatest movie in the history of movies,” says Daniel. The Xbox is off and now the eighty-inch TV screen shows Talladega Nights. It’s the part where Will Ferrell thinks he’s on fire but he’s not and runs around the racetrack stripping off his clothes.
“It is the greatest movie ever,” says Braedon. “I am going to memorize every line. ‘Chip, I’m gonna come at you like a spider monkey.’”
Daniel laughs. “‘I’m just a big hairy American winning machine. If you ain’t first, you’re last.’”
They’ve eaten a whole bag of chips, are halfway through a two-liter bottle of A&W Root Beer, and a quarter way through a package of Oreo Double Stuf cookies. Sleeping bags are spread on opposite sides of a humongous sectional, and the room smells like twelve-year-old boy.
“Think you could memorize the whole thing, bro?” says Daniel.
“Pretty sure,” says Braedon. “But I’ll have to do it during the summer, otherwise my head will be filled with movie lines and I’ll fail all my classes.”
“Bet you five bucks you can’t do it before school starts,” says Daniel.
“You’re on.”
Daniel’s phone lights up. He looks down at the screen and says, “Shit, bro.”
“What?”
“Graham Collins is calling.”
“Who’s Graham Collins?”
“He’s one of the guys who gave me the stolen bike. Shit, shit, shit.”
“Don’t answer it.”
“I have to,” says Daniel. “They told me if I didn’t, they’d come to the house.” The air seems to deflate out of him as he takes the call and puts it on speaker. “Hi, Graham.”
“Little man,” says Graham. “We need your services tonight.”
“I’m in bed,” says Daniel. “I’m not allowed to go out after nine o’clock.”
“Yeah, that’s your problem,” says Graham. “We need you to start a fire for us.”
“What?” says Daniel. He looks over at Braedon, who shakes his head so hard it might pop off his neck.
“There’s some guys from Chatfield who are pissed and out looking for us. They’re driving a beat-to-shit Dodge Ram, and we need you to bring us some fire.”
“What? How am I supposed to bring fire? Like in a torch or something?”
“Not with a torch, you idiot. That would draw too much attention. Put some gas in a bottle, find an old rag, and matches or a lighter.”
“Like gas that goes in a car?” says Daniel.
Braedon watches his friend’s eyes dart back and forth in a pale, damp face.
“No, we want you to fart in a bottle. Yes, the kind of gas that goes in a car! Now quit screwing around. We’ll meet you in the parking lot behind the community center.”
Now Braedon is on his feet, standing on the sectional, shaking his head and waving his arms and mouthing No way.
Daniel says, “I’m giving the bike back. I don’t want it. I can’t help you guys. I’m only twelve.”
“Dude,” says Graham. “You already took the bike. No give-backs. So bring us what we asked for, or we’re lighting your house on fire.”
The call ends, and Daniel looks up at the ceiling. “What am I going to do?”
“You have to call the police,” says Braedon. “Or at least tell your parents.”
“No,” says Daniel. “They’ll kill me.”
“Who will kill you?”
“Everyone. Graham and those guys. My parents. And the police.”
“No they won’t,” says Braedon. “The police already know about the stolen bike. They won’t be mad.”
“If the police get into this, Graham will know it was me. And you don’t have to do anything.
Just stay here. I can ride my bike down there, give them the stuff, and be back in half an hour.
We have gas in the garage. And a bunch of empty bottles in the recycling bin.
I’ll do this one thing for them and then I’ll be done. ”
Braedon shakes his head. “It’s called a Molotov cocktail.”
“What is?”
“The stuff they want you to bring. It’s called a Molotov cocktail.
You fill the bottle with gas, shove the rag in the top, then light the rag on fire.
When you throw it, the glass breaks when the bottle lands and gas goes everywhere and catches on fire.
I’ve heard people talk about them in Ireland.
Not in the part I lived in, but in Northern Ireland, people burned stuff all the time with Molotov cocktails during the Troubles. ”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Daniel. “But I have to go.”
“Don’t,” says Braedon. “If you get caught with a bottle and gas, you’re the one who will get in trouble. Graham and those guys won’t.”
Daniel pulls on his sweatshirt and slips into his shoes. “If my parents come downstairs, tell them I’m in the bathroom. And tell them I have diarrhea or something so they don’t expect me to come out soon.”
“Dude,” says Braedon. “You can’t leave me here alone.”
“Why not?”
“It’s weird,” says Braedon. “And kind of creepy.”
“Then come with me,” says Daniel. He pushes his hair out of his eyes and hitches up his jeans. “You can ride my brother’s bike. I’m going upstairs to get one of those reusable shopping bags. Then we can sneak out the back door down here.”
Moen’s Bridge is a canoe landing on the Root River between the towns of Chatfield and Lanesboro. Judd parks his Tahoe on County Road 21 on a pull-out just before the bridge. It’s dead quiet and dead dark at 11:55 PM.
Clay parks three hundred yards behind Judd.
He checks the clock on his dash. Six more minutes.
He checks his phone. The signal from the tracking device comes through clearly.
Clay rolls down his window. The frogs and crickets are making a racket.
Clay knows his father. He’ll do this by the book.
By the book and to the minute. He waits a little longer and then raises the binoculars to his eyes.
It’s not long before Judd exits the Tahoe carrying the bear canister loaded with forty-five thousand dollars. He walks to the edge of the bridge and looks down at the Root River. Clay observes his father checking his watch one more time. Then he sees a shadow approaching Judd from behind.