Madman on a Drum (Mac McKenzie #5)

I set the phone on my clothes and walked into the water. You would have thought that the lake would have retained some of its summer heat. It hadn’t. Goose bumps formed all over my body, and I began to shiver. I was convinced my feet were turning blue. I plowed into the lake until the water was covering my knees. Half the teenagers had stopped what they were doing to watch me, probably wondering what that old man was doing. I dove in. The shock to my system was so great that for a panicky moment I convinced myself I was having a heart attack. Still, I stayed underwater as long as I could. I came up gasping; the cold had knocked the breath out of me. I turned and pushed through the icy lake toward the beach. The water had pasted the boxers to my skin, and you could easily discern the outline of the plastic box if you looked hard. I moved quickly to the cell phone and turned sideways so Scottie wouldn’t look.

“What now?” I said.

“Cold, was it, McKenzie?”

“Invigorating,” I said. “What now?”

“Leave your clothes. Take nothing. Walk to the Toyota. I’m watching you.”

I did what Scottie said while holding the phone to my ear. I was shivering, and my teeth began to chatter. The teenagers had found something else to occupy their attention. The jogger near the snack shack had disappeared; the driver parked at the entrance to the parking lot had moved on. So much for Honsa’s agents, my inner voice said.

When I reached the car, Scottie told me to remove the aluminum cases and transfer them to the Reliant. I carried a case in each hand and the third tucked under my arm. I walked so that one of the cases was in front of my boxers. The cell was in my mouth. The cases were heavy and the going was awkward, yet the effort seemed to warm me. I set the cases next to the car and returned the cell phone to my ear.

“This is where it pays for you to be real smart, McKenzie, cuz if you fuck up I’ll kill both you and the girl.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Open the cases, remove the money one packet at a time, and set them inside the trunk of the Reliant. Listen to me, McKenzie. Are you listening?”

“I’m listening.”

“We’ll bring the girl to you when we make the exchange. But there’s going to be a gun pointed at her head. Now, we’re going to take that money out of the trunk, one packet at a time, and if we see a GPS or listening device or any kind of bug, she dies and then you die. Ain’t gonna be no discussion about it, neither.”

“I understand.”

“Be smart, McKenzie.”

The trunk wasn’t locked; the lid was resting on top of the latch, and it came up easily. I got the impression that Scottie was positioned so that he could see into the trunk, which put him across Rice Street at a bar called the Chalet, or someplace near it. I made an effort not to look.

I worked the combination on the cases and unlocked them one at a time. I had forgotten which one contained the GPS transmitter, and I was careful when I handled each packet of money so that I wouldn’t put it into the trunk by accident. I found it in the second case. I used my body to block Scottie’s view while I unwrapped a packet of twenties from around the device. I put the money in the trunk and slid the box under the car. I was putting all of my trust into the GPS transmitter taped between my legs. I thought, This damn thing had better be waterproof or I’m going to shoot Harry.

I finished the job, tossing the empty cases aside, and slammed the trunk lid closed.

“What now?” I said into the cell.

“That’s a lot of money,” Scottie said.

“One million bucks.”

“For some reason, I didn’t think there’d be that many bills.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Get in the car.”

I did as I was told. The sun had baked the Reliant while it sat in the parking lot, and I was grateful for the warmth I found inside. The keys were in the ignition. The engine started hard; it was a decade younger than the Toyota, but the Reliant had not aged nearly as gracefully. The engine ran rough, and the exhaust was thick.

“Start driving,” Scottie said.

The address the kidnapper gave me was for a shotgun house located in the Badlands, not too far from Scottie’s halfway house—not far from the St. Paul Police Department, either, for that matter. The house had once been yellow, but over time the paint had faded to the color of urine; the white trim was now gray. There was a FOR SALE sign in front of it. From where I was parked, I could see a half-dozen brightly colored Realtors’ signs in front of structures up and down the street. Some of the houses were old with crumbling concrete sidewalks and frayed shingles. Others were new, freshly painted multi-family units. A white sixteen-foot moving truck, its huge doors open and its ramp down, was parked in front of a pristine duplex on the next block. I didn’t see any movers, but I was willing to bet they were going, not coming. Despite attempts to revive the Badlands over the decades, the ancient neighborhood had been unable to shake off the distinctive aura of rust.

I rolled down the windows of the Reliant and waited. I listened to the engine ticking off its heat and the rumble of freeway traffic in the distance; I smelled the exhaust and burning oil that could have come from the freeway or the Plymouth or both; I watched the street. There were a half-dozen cars parked on both sides in front of me and a few more behind, yet I saw no one. Still, that didn’t mean there weren’t people watching intently from their windows. The possibility made me wonder if this was the end of the line or just another brief stop in the kidnappers’ circuitous route. Yes, the location was handy to several freeways. It was also wide open to witnesses.

I waited.