The Taking of Libbie, SD (6 page)

“Hi, Harry,” I said.

“Jesus Christ, McKenzie, where are you? Are you all right?”

I knew he was concerned because he didn’t admonish me for using the nickname Harry, which he never approved of.

“I’m fine. I’m in Libbie, South Dakota,” I said.

“Why are you in Libbie, South Dakota?”

I explained. Harry interrupted several times, mostly to ask for names. Afterward, he told me that they had issued an alert in my name and that the FBI, the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Investigation, the St. Anthony Police Department, and the St. Paul Police Department had launched a full-scale kidnapping investigation.

“Wow,” I said.

“Wow is fucking right,” Harry said. He demanded more names. I gave him what I had. He said heads would roll. I said as long as they didn’t belong to the Libbie Police Department, I didn’t care. He said, “Once a cop, always a cop.” I said, “We protect our own.” He said he wanted to speak to me—in person—as soon as possible. “There are people to see, paperwork to sign.” I told him I would be home soon.

“Have you spoken to Bobby yet?” Harry said.

“Not yet.”

“Give him a call. I know the St. Paul Police Department has put a lot of resources into this.”

“Really?”

“Kinda makes you feel important, doesn’t it?”

“A little bit, yeah.”

“Well, they don’t know you the way I do.”

Victoria Dunston answered the phone on the second ring. When she heard my voice she sighed deeply. Victoria had been kidnapped for ransom a year earlier, and while it all worked out in the end, it had been a traumatic experience for her—I doubted that she had fully recovered from it, or that she ever would.

“You okay?” I said.

“I’m fine. Are you okay?”

I told her I was just swell.

“I had a few tough moments,” she said. “You made me cry a little bit.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Somehow I knew it would be all right, though. Just like I knew it would be all right when they kidnapped me. God, McKenzie. Why do these things happen to us?”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

I heard voices on Victoria’s end of the phone. “McKenzie? Didyou say McKenzie? Are you talking to McKenzie?” There was a muffled sound as the receiver was wrestled away from the girl.

“McKenzie?”

“Hey, Shelby,” I said.

A moment later Bobby Dunston picked up a second receiver and called my name.

“Hey,” I said.

They both demanded a detailed explanation, especially Bobby—I had the feeling he was taking notes. Bobby was a commander in St. Paul’s newly minted major crimes division but wasn’t running the investigation into my disappearance because the department had claimed he was too close to the case. We had been friends since the beginning of time. I gave him everything I had told Harry, and then some. When he was satisfied, he said he had to make a few calls and left me on the line with his wife.

“Are you really all right, Rushmore?” she said.

I met Shelby three and a half minutes before her husband did, and often I have wondered what would’ve happened if I had been the one who spilled a drink on her.

“I really am, Shel,” I said. “A bit of a headache, some aches and pains, nothing more. I’m sorry if you were frightened, but it wasn’t my fault.”

“As opposed to all the other times you frightened me when it was your fault.”

“Exactly.”

She sighed deeply. It was the same sigh that Victoria had given me. Like mother, like daughter.

“I’ve given you and your family a few anxious moments over the years,” I said. “I apologize.”

“The good has always outweighed the bad.”

“Thank you for saying that.”

“What did Nina have to say about all this?”

“I haven’t spoken to her yet.”

That caused Shelby to pause for a few beats.

“You called me before you called her?” she said.

“No. I mean yes. I mean, I called—I knew Bobby would beworking the case…” This time I sighed. “Yes, I called you first.”

“Dammit, McKenzie.”

“What?”

“You’re supposed to call the woman you’re in love with first.”

“Sure.”

She paused again.

“Be safe, Rushmore,” she said. “Hurry home.”

Shelby hung up before I could say anything more.

Nina was not at the jazz club she owned near the cathedral in St. Paul, named Rickie’s after her daughter, Erica. Jenness, her assistant manager, said she had been too anxious to work. When I reached her at home, she shrieked my name so loudly I had to pull the receiver from my ear. After I assured her that I was “fit as a fiddle and ready for love,” she told me that everyone was looking for me, including Harry and the FBI. I told her that I would call them as soon as I was finished talking to her.

“You called me first?”

“You’re the only one that matters,” I said.

I believed it with all my heart when I said it. I admit that on occasion I allow myself to become confused. Yet all I have to do is see Nina or hear her voice and everything becomes perfectly clear to me. I see the world in its entirety, and it is exactly the way it should be.

I told Nina what had happened in detail, even confessed to how frightened I had become, which I had not admitted to anyone else. I told her that I was tempted to help the City of Libbie because I was angry that the Imposter had used my name. I also told her that the idea made me uneasy because I would be cut off from my resources, from Bobby and Harry and from her. Nina told me she would support any decision I made, although she wouldn’t have an untroubled moment until I returned safely to her. She was like that, supporting my crusades, as she called them, without entirely embracing them.

God, I love this woman, I told myself.

Then why did you call Shelby first?
my inner voice said.

“I’ll be home as soon as I can,” I said.

“I’ll be waiting,” Nina told me.

After I shaved and showered, I stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror and fingered the puncture wounds in my shoulder and waist. The Taser marks seemed smaller now, yet they throbbed like first-degree burns. I would have liked some salve to soothe them, but all I had was aspirin tablets that I was starting to pop like M&M’s. They hadn’t done my headache any good at all.

I stared at my reflection.

“Screw Libbie, South Dakota,” I said aloud. “Screw the Imposter. Screw everyone.”

I finished dressing and peeked at my reflection yet again. For some reason I didn’t look like myself. Certainly I didn’t feel like myself.

“Go home, McKenzie,” I said.

The reflection nodded in agreement.

Sharren gave me a wolf whistle from behind the registration desk when I reached the lobby. She spoke in a low, husky voice that sounded as if a lifetime of talking had taken its toll.

“My, oh my, but don’t you clean up nice,” she said.

“Clothes make the man,” I said.

“I don’t know about that, Rush. I kinda liked what you were wearing before.”

“I’d rather you didn’t call me that—Rush. McKenzie is just fine.”

“Buy you a drink, big boy?”

I glanced up at the clock behind Sharren’s left shoulder. Even if I took my time, I would probably be about five minutes early to the café, and I couldn’t have that.

“Yes, you can buy me a drink,” I said. I didn’t mind at all that she called me “big boy.”

The star attraction of the Pioneer Hotel was its cathedral-like dining room with a huge stone fireplace. It was half filled, a good crowd for a Monday night, Sharren said. Heads turned to watch as she led me through the room, and there were whispers.

“News travels fast in a small town,” I said.

“Hmm?”

“Nothing.”

At the far end of the dining room was an ancient bar, the kind with a long, graceful mirror. A young man with sparkling eyes and a winning smile stood behind the stick. The way he ran his fingers through his blond hair made me think he knew how to get girls. On the other hand, the way his white dress shirt strained at the buttons made me think that if he didn’t start investing in some exercise, the girls wouldn’t stay gotten for long. He greeted us with two coasters that he quickly set in front of us and a prediction that we’d like it there.

“Evan, this is Rushmore McKenzie,” Sharren said. “McKenzie, this is Evan.”

“The one and only,” Evan said as he extended his hand. I didn’t know if he meant me or himself. “What’ll ya have?”

We ordered a double Jack Daniel’s for me and bourbon and water for Sharren. I took a long pull of the liquor. It burned all the way down to my empty stomach. I heard my inner voice say,
You should eat something before you set to drinking
. In a minute, I told it, and took another sip.

“So, what do you think of Libbie?” Evan said.

“It’s a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live here.”

Neither of them thought my answer was particularly funny.

Sharren asked if I would mind taking our drinks back to the hotel lobby in case an errant traveler might seek lodging for the evening. I said that was fine. On the way out, I caught Evan giving Sharren a wink and the thumbs-up sign. Sharren responded by sticking out her tongue.

As we worked our way back through the dining room, Sharren told me about the swimming pool and sauna that were added in the early seventies and how people would often book rooms just to lounge around them, especially in winter.

“We added a water slide two years ago,” she said. “It’s become a big profit center for us.”

Once again, I noted the turned heads, whispered words, and more than a few twisted smiles as we walked past. This time, though, it occurred to me that I was only peripherally the object of curiosity. It was Sharren that the diners followed. I began to suspect that I wasn’t the first “big boy” Sharren had treated to drinks. I also wondered at what point her dalliances had become a spectator sport.

“Small towns,” I said.

“Tell me about it,” Sharren said.

Apparently this time she knew exactly what I meant.

I followed her to the lobby. We found a pair of overstuffed chairs with an uncluttered view of both the front door and the registration desk and settled in.

“Are you really going to try to find Rush—I mean—you know who I mean,” Sharren said.

“Do you care?”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing him get punished for what he did to the town.”

“What did he do to you?”

Sharren surprised me by smiling. She waved her glass at the arched doorway leading to the restaurant.

“You saw those people giving me the eye,” she said. “That’s what he did to me.”

“What do you know about him?”

“I know he used to be a cop in the Twin Cities and that he quit the force to collect a reward on an embezzler he tracked down—a couple of million dollars. I know he graduated with honors from the University of Minnesota, he speaks three languages, he’s single, and his parents are dead, that he has a big house in Falcon Heights…”

I took a long pull of the whiskey.

“That’s all you, isn’t it?” Sharren said.

“Yeah.”

“Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. I like being me.”

“Yes, but him using your name like that—I’m sorry.”

“What else do you know about me?”

“I know you like sports. Do you like sports?”

“Yes.”

“You played hockey?”

I nodded.

“And baseball?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And football?”

“Football? No. He said I played football?”

“He said you lettered as a wide receiver and backup quarterback.”

“Did he say who I played for?”

“Central High School in St. Paul. He said you were a Raider.”

That caused me to lean back in my chair.

“You didn’t go to Central High School?” Sharren said.

“I did, yes. We were called the Minutemen.”

I bet you could catch him if you really wanted to
, my inner voice told me.
There are probably a thousand high schools in the U.S. with the nick
name Raiders, yet if you could narrow it down … Stop it! You’re going home, remember?

The clock above the registration desk told me if I hurried, I would be only fifteen minutes late for my meeting with Tracie. I drained my drink and stood up. The pain in my head made me wince.

“Are you okay?” Sharren said.

“I need to get something to eat.”

“I’m off at ten, but I could stay later if…”

Sharren leaned forward. The front of her shirt fell away, as I’m sure she intended, and I could see the swell of her breasts encased in flimsy black nylon and lace. I forced myself to look away but could do nothing about the all too familiar stirring somewhere south of my belt.
Will you never grow up?
my inner voice asked. What are you talking about? I looked away, didn’t I?

“I don’t know when I’ll be back,” I said.

“If you’re having dinner with Tracie Blake, you won’t be out too late,” Sharren said. “So if you want to chat some more, we could have another drink. Or two.”

I knew an invitation when I heard one. Just in case I was brain dead, though, Sharren rose slowly from her chair, stepped in close, and rested her slender fingers on my shoulder at the base of my neck.

This is probably a good time to mention Nina
, my inner voice told me.
You remember her, don’t you? The love of your life?
Only I didn’t want to get into it.

“Be careful,” I said. “People will talk.”

“People will talk anyway.”

I eased Sharren’s hand off my shoulder, gave it a friendly squeeze, and released it.

“I gotta go,” I said.

I stepped around Sharren and headed for the door.

“Have a good time,” she said.

“Don’t wait up,” I told her.

Café Rossini was located on the corner of First and Main, and it had two entrances. Enter from the west like I did and it looked like a neighborhood bar with plenty of worn wood and lights that discouraged reading. The entrance to the dining room was at the north end of the building, and I had to walk through the bar to get to it—you could not see the bar from the dining room.

Unlike the bar, the dining area looked like it had been built in the fifties—it was all stainless steel, Formica, and cold fluorescent lights. A long counter with a dozen round stools bolted to the floor faced the kitchen; slices of various fruit pies were set on small plates and displayed in clear plastic cases near the cash register. Each of the half-dozen booths against the wall had a metal napkin dispenser, bottles of ketchup and mustard, and shakers of salt and pepper. So did the small Formica tables arranged between them. Tinny, unrecognizable music poured from cheap speakers.