The Taking of Libbie, SD (3 page)

Lord and Master muscled me through the doors. A wave of cold air immediately pummeled my body. The dull throb above my ears became a slicing pain that attacked my eyes. It had to be thirty degrees cooler inside than outside, but instead of making me feel better, the abrupt change in temperature increased my nausea. I gagged, nearly vomited. The kidnappers stared at me nervously as they brought my limp body to a waist-high counter. A uniformed officer stood behind it.

“Is that him?” he said.

“Yeah.”

“He don’t look too good.”

“He’s fine.”

“Put ’im in interrogation.”

I was now able to put weight on my legs; probably I could have walked without help. The kidnappers wouldn’t think of it. They half carried, half dragged me around the counter. They led me to a metal door, opened it, and pulled me inside as if they had been there many times before. The desk officer followed behind.

The room might have been used for interrogations, but the smell of fried chicken convinced me that it was also used as a lunchroom. It was probably the conference room as well. In the center of the room was a metal table that was secured to the concrete floor. There were several folding chairs around the table, plus one metal chair that was also bolted to the floor and facing a one-way mirror. The tall kidnapper dumped me into the metal chair while the officer pulled the other chairs away, folded them, and leaned them against the wall out of my reach.

Finished, he came over and gave the tall kidnapper a pair of handcuffs with a foot-long chain between them. “Here, use this,” he said. The kidnapper secured one cuff to a steel ring welded to the table. The other he wound around my right wrist. After that, he severed the nylon restrains with his cutter.

I pulled my arms out from behind my back with a mixture of pain and relief. I stretched as best I could against the chain. The effort both exhilarated and tired me. I slumped forward and rested my forehead against the tabletop. The metal felt cool against my skin. The pain in my head became less pointed and seemed to spread to the entire back of my skull.

“You sure that’s him?” the officer said. “He doesn’t look the same.”

“He’s been locked in a trunk for six hundred miles,” the tall kidnapper said. “What do you expect him to look like?”

“We should give him some water,” said the shorter kidnapper. “Do you have any water?”

“Hey,” the officer said. He nudged my bare foot with his shoe. “Hey. What’s your name?”

I answered, but apparently he didn’t hear me. He nudged me again. “What did you say?”

“Rushmore McKenzie,” I said.

“Told you it was him,” said the tall kidnapper.

“You got any water?” the shorter kidnapper repeated. “We should give ’im some water.”

“Yeah, I’ll get some,” the officer said.

“When are we gonna get our money?” the taller kidnapper said.

“Don’t ask me. Talk to old man Miller. He’s the one put the bounty out. Far as I know, the city hasn’t even charged McKenzie with a crime. The county, neither. I better make some calls.” The officer left the room. The two kidnappers followed him out.

“We should get ’im some water,” the shorter one said.

The water came in a plastic bottle with a blue label. I tried not to drink it too fast and failed. I asked for more. The officer gave me a kind of screw-you look, but my appearance must have changed his mind, because he quickly brought me two more bottles.

I had always been contemptuous of the bottled-water crowd, especially those good folks who always seem to have a jug with them, sometimes carried in a little pouch like a pet. The municipal water system had always been good enough for me—that’s where most bottled water comes from, anyway. Also, I’d never much believed the myth, fiercely propagated by the bottled-water industry, that we should drink eight bottles every day in order to properly hydrate ourselves. I just couldn’t see any health benefit in going to the bathroom seventeen times a day. Nor did I take pride in knowing that Americans have the clearest and most expensive urine in the world. Instead, I’d generally heeded the advice of my dad, who said you should drink only when you are thirsty and never pay for anything that’s free. On the other hand, I didn’t think Dad spent much time in the trunk of a Ford Taurus on a sweltering day in July.

I stood up, testing my legs. They seemed to work fine. I took a step in one direction and a second in the other—that was all I could manage with my wrist chained to the table, yet it filled me with confidence. I looked at myself in the one-way mirror. Red splotches on my shoulder and waist looked like large and dangerous bee stings. Half of my hair was plastered to my head; the other half stood out at awkward angles. I was in need of a shave, and despite the naps I took in the trunk, my face had the droopy look of someone who needed a good night’s sleep. My blue shorts were damp, and the sour odor of urine mixed with the aroma of fried chicken. It wasn’t a pretty smell, but it reminded me of how long it had been since I had last eaten, just the same.

The officer returned to the room.

“Sit down,” he said.

“I’d rather stand,” I said.

“Sit down.”

There was an angry expression on his face, so I sat. I didn’t feel strong enough to defy him.

He stepped over to the table. He took the empty water bottle and left the half-filled twin.

“What’s that smell?” he said.

“Where am I?” I said.

The officer looked at me as if he thought I was putting him on. “The police department in Libbie,” he said.

“Where is Libbie?”

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“Do I look like I’m trying to be funny?”

“You’re back in South Dakota, asshole.”

“Back? I’ve never been in South Dakota. Not once in my life.”

“Is that right?”

“Why have I been brought here against my will?”

“Why is anyone brought here against their will?”

“Look, pal. I heard you say that neither the city nor the county had any paper on me. So either release me or charge me. If you charge me, you had better read me my rights and let me contact an attorney.”

The officer smirked and gave me a slow head shake. “Not this time, chiseler,” he said. “You’re not walking away this time.”

This time?

I asked him what he meant. He left the interrogation room without answering, closing the metal door behind him.

There wasn’t much I could do except sit and wait, my elbows on the table, my head resting in my hands. I still had no idea what it was all about, why I was hustled to Libbie, South Dakota, wherever that was. Yet my natural confidence was returning. I felt sure that someone would explain it all to me soon, and eventually I would get my phone call. When I did—whom should I call? I wondered. A lawyer, G. K. Bonalay, probably. Except—does Nina know I’m missing? She’s probably worried sick. Certainly I’d be disappointed if she wasn’t. The cops, they must be searching for me, too. St. Anthony PD. St. Paul. Bobby Dunston. He’s probably rousting every punk, every offender I ever knew. Those damn bounty hunters, they were the criminals, I reminded myself. There were no wants, no warrants issued against me. Taking me like they did, transporting me across state lines, they have a phrase for that—it’s called felony kidnapping. A federal beef. Yeah, suddenly I knew exactly whom I was going to call. I was going to call Harry. I was going to call the FBI.

I was thinking how much fun that was going to be when I heard a murmur of voices behind the mirror. They sounded excited. I couldn’t make out much, just a few words and phrases—“liar,” “thief,” “con artist,” and “bastard” were all closely tied to my name. The voices quieted and then became louder. A moment later the door to the interrogation room burst open. A man stepped through. He was big, one of those guys who could fill a bus seat all by himself. He was old, too, pushing seventy at least. Only he didn’t move like he was old. He crossed the floor in a hurry, raised a beefy hand, and swung down on my face. I tried to raise my arm to block the blow, only it was chained to the table and he was able to get over the top of it. He didn’t hit like he was old, either—I felt a stinging thump above my ear that caused my brain to vibrate. I tucked my head and turned it away. His next punches fell on my neck and shoulders. He hit me at least six, seven times before a trio of men subdued him and dragged him from the room. The name Mr. Miller was mixed with their shouts.

“What was that?” I said to no one in particular.

No one answered.

“What the hell was that?”

A tall man attired in the uniform of the City of Libbie Police Department stepped back through the door. He was carrying a clipboard.

“I am Chief of Police Eric Gustafson,” he said. “Are you Rushmore McKenzie?”

“Yes, I am.”

He glanced down at the sheet of paper attached to the clipboard. “Do you live in Falcon Heights in Minnesota?”

“I do.”

“When were you born?”

I told him.

He looked up. “Not in June?”

“No, not in June,” I said.

“What is your Social Security number?”

I recited the nine digits.

“Are you sure?” he said.

“Positive.”

He turned and left the room.

I heard more voices, this time from the hallway outside the interrogation room door. Someone said, “Big mistake.” Someone else shouted, “No, no, no.” A third voice said, “Lineup? Photo array?”

I heard nothing more. After a few minutes, I rested my head on the tabletop again. If I slept, I did so without noticing. There was a sharp rap on the mirror. I looked up and saw only myself. More time passed. I finished the water. I asked for more. Whoever was behind the mirror ignored the request.

Moments later the chief returned to the room. He halted at the door, a look of confusion on his face.

“Rushmore McKenzie.” He said the name slowly. “You were a police officer. You know—”

“What do I know?”

“You know—”

“I know you got the wrong guy,” I said. “You sent your thugs to Minnesota. They busted down my door, Tasered me, dragged me from my bed, locked me in a trunk, transported me across state lines, and now you’re holding me without charges, without giving me my rights—these are all federal crimes. Right? You screwed up, and now you’re wondering what to do about it. That’s what I know.” I rattled the chain against the metal table. “Well?”

He turned and stepped back through the doorway.

“The longer you keep me here, the worse it’s going to get,” I said. “For both of us,” I added quietly as he shut the door behind him.

CHAPTER TWO

She swept into the interrogation room. That’s an apt verb—swept. She moved quickly to the table, walking tall like a model inviting you to look but not touch. She was wearing a fitted white blouse tucked inside a flirty salmon skirt that revealed a lot of leg. Her hair was long, heavy, and blond-red, her features golden and pretty. There was a big-city sheen to her and, also, an odd kind of harshness around her eyes as if she had seen things that had hurt her. She looked around, found the folding chairs leaning against the wall, took one, unfolded it, and set it in front of the table.

“I’m Tracie Blake,” she said.

She offered her hand even as she settled into the chair. I raised my own hand to give her a good look at the chain securing me to the table.

“Oh,” she said.

“Oh,” I repeated.

She sighed dramatically and said, “We thought you were someone else.”

“Who did you think I was?”

“Rushmore McKenzie.”

“What a coincidence. I thought I was Rushmore McKenzie, too.”

“Yes, but not
the
Rushmore McKenzie.”

She smiled as if she had told a joke and was waiting for her audience to get it.

“Who are you?” I said.

“I’m a member of the Libbie City Council.”

“And you’re here because…?”

She stared for a moment as if she were considering various answers and then opted for the truth. “They think I have a better chance of convincing you not to sue the town into oblivion.”

I glared at the one-way mirror, trying to see the faces of the men I knew were standing behind it. “They do, huh?”

“Yeppers.”

“Honey, you may be the prettiest girl these guys have ever seen, but you’re not the prettiest I’ve seen. If you think a come-hither smile is going to work on me, you’re mistaken.”

Tracie shrugged as if she didn’t quite believe me.

“What would work?” she asked.

I clenched my fist and yanked my arm up as if I were going to punch her. I would have been about three feet short of her face even if the chain hadn’t shortened my swing, yet she flinched and leaned backward just the same.

“You can start by unshackling me,” I said.

“People are afraid of you, of what you might do.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m afraid of what you might do.”

“Like what?”

“I’m hundreds of miles from home, no friend knows I’m here, dressed only in soiled shorts, no wallet, no ID, chained to a table—think about it.”

She did, for a full ten seconds before she smiled a most beguiling smile and said, “Oh, that’s just silly.”

“You think?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then why am I still chained to this table?”

“I’m not—”

“Do you agree that I’m not the guy you’re looking for?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you apologize and let me go?”

Tracie spun in her chair and studied the interrogation room mirror as if she expected the answer to magically appear on the glass. When it didn’t, she turned back to face me.

“Can I tell you what happened?” she said. “Can we just sit here, calmly, like adults, and I’ll explain what happened?”

I made a big production of showing her the chain again. “Do I have a choice?”

“Rushmore.”

“Only one person gets to call me Rushmore, and you’re not her. My name is McKenzie. Just McKenzie, all right?”

“See, that’s one difference right there—between you and the other McKenzie, I mean. He always told people to call him Rush.”

I leaned back in the chair and made myself as comfortable as I could. I had a feeling this was going to take a while.