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mercy of the court. If I turned the swag in now, there was good reason to
believe I would be regarded as something other than a co-conspirator.
But then, if I spoke to Sears, I d be putting Robert Johnson in jeop-
ardy as well. Tronstad had stolen the bags. Whatever came down on him
was deserved, but Robert and I had been sucked into this by accident.
Still, we d lied to Sears. All of us.
What it boiled down to was, I didn t want to turn Johnson in and
didn t have the balls to send Ted Tronstad to jail, especially after he d cov-
ered for me at Arch Place. I d had weeks to think about Arch Place and
now realized missing the rig on a call wasn t the most egregious crime
anybody ever committed. Over the years plenty of firefighters had missed
the rig, albeit most likely not for the reason I did. But some of the blame
would fall on Sears, who was supposed to make certain everybody was on
T HE S MOK E R O OM 63
board before the apparatus left the station. Odds were, I would have kept
my job had I been forthright.
If the truth came out now, however, it would look terrible, because I d
been lying for three weeks. I d lied to Lieutenant Sears and Chief Abbott.
I d even lied to the chief of the department, who d phoned to commiser-
ate over the fire deaths. And now I d lied to Sears about the bond.
I kept telling myself that I didn t have any choice, that Tronstad had
blackmailed me with Arch Place, that it was out of my hands. But that was
a lie, too. You always have a choice.
After sixty minutes of skating I changed out of my skates, fired up the
Subaru, and drove up the hill. I would put the bonds back where Tronstad
found them. The drive took less than ten minutes, Ghanet s neighbor-
hood squatty and dry in the morning sunshine.
My plan was scotched when I saw that Ghanet s front door was open
and there were two sedans and a Ford Expedition in front of the house.
From their license plates I knew the cars belonged to the city, police de-
tectives probably. I d only been to Ghanet s house once during daylight
hours and was surprised at how shabby it looked.
I drove past the house and kept going.
I d been hoping I might be able to stuff the bonds through the mail
slot or toss them into the garage in back, but that wasn t going to happen
with all those people around. It was about then that I realized I was being
followed. It was Tronstad, in the old pickup truck he d inherited from his
father. I knew he was following me so he could get the bonds back. It was
going to cause a major blowout between him and Johnson, but more than
that, if they turned out to be worth something, I would never be able to
retrieve them to turn them in.
Downshifting, I cornered hard and floored the accelerator. Let him
try to follow me. Even a new truck wouldn t have a chance. He was in my
rearview mirror for a block and a half and then he was gone.
Once I was sure I d lost him, I drove back down the hill to the water
and past the lighthouse at Alki Point, following the route I d skated ear-
lier. I couldn t go home with the bags in the car: Tronstad knew where
I lived and would be waiting for me. I had to hide them. I detoured off
of Alki, knowing Tronstad could reappear in my rearview mirror at any
64 E A R L E ME R S ON
moment on this long strip of road. Driving up the hill, I found myself in
Iola Pederson s neighborhood and slowed to a crawl in front of her house.
This was the first time I d been there since the pig plunged through her
roof, and the house looked as good as new.
There were no cars on the premises and no signs of life. Off to
the right of the house, a detached garage served as a storage shed for
lawn mowers, bicycles, and ski equipment. If I hid the bags there I could
pick them up in a few days and return them sometime when I knew
Tronstad wasn t on my tail and official interest had died off at Ghanet s
house.
I parked in the driveway, popped the rear hatch, grabbed all three
bags, closed the lid with my elbow, walked over to the outbuilding, and
pushed open the unlocked door with my shoulder. Inside, I found an
old black sixties-era Volvo. Beside the car was an upside-down canoe. I
opened the rear door of the Volvo without difficulty. Depositing the three
black garbage bags on the floor in the back, I closed the door and peered
through the windows, finding the bags nearly invisible.
When Iola Pederson pulled up, I was in the driveway.
Hey, dumbbell, she said, leaving the motor of the Land Cruiser run-
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