Madman on a Drum (Mac McKenzie #5)

It bothered me that I didn’t see any police vehicles as I maneuvered the Reliant through the Badlands and onto I-94. Don’t let them get away, don’t let them get away, my inner voice chanted.

Victoria stifled a sob next to me. It was the first sound she’d made since I found her.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

She nodded.

“You’re safe now,” I said. “You’ll be home soon.”

“I expected Daddy to come and get me,” she said. Her voice was low, almost a whisper.

“Your father wanted to be here, sweetie. The kidnappers wouldn’t let him. They were afraid of what he might have done.”

“They were afraid of Daddy?”

“Big-time.”

“Because they thought he might kill them?”

“Yep.”

“Would he have?”

“Once he knew you were safe? Yeah, there was a real good chance.”

“I’m glad, then, glad Daddy isn’t here. I don’t want them dead. I want them arrested so I can testify in court, so I can tell them that I wasn’t afraid, tell them that they didn’t make me afraid.”

She was crying now. I reached across the seat and rested my hand on her shoulder.

“I don’t want to cry,” she said.

“It’s okay, Tory. Cry all you want.”

She brushed my hand away. “I don’t want to cry!” A moment later, she said, “I wasn’t afraid.”

“I know.”

“I hate those fuckers.”

“I don’t blame you.”

We drove the rest of the way in silence until we reached the block where Victoria lived.

“McKenzie,” Victoria said.

“Yes, sweetie.”

“Please don’t tell Mom and Dad that I used the F-word.”

13

I had to grab Victoria’s elbow to keep her from flying out of the car before it stopped. She already had the door open and her seat belt unfastened before I eased to the curb in front of her house. Shelby was standing at the front door. She started running the moment she saw us. Victoria sprinted to meet her. They had a splendid collision on the front lawn. Bobby and Katie were there a moment later to pile on. I stood next to the Reliant and watched, not even remotely embarrassed by how I looked until Honsa sidled up to me. He glanced down at the boxers and then up at me.

“Nice color,” he said. “Brings out your eyes.”

“You think?” I said.

Honsa was carrying the clothes I had left on the beach at McCarrons Lake. They were neatly folded.

“We thought you might want these,” he said.

“When I left the ransom drop, they were loading the money into the back of a red late-model Pontiac Vibe station wagon,” I said. “I didn’t get a plate.” I recited the address of the yellow house. “They might have been using it. I can’t be sure.”

“I’ll alert Special Agent Wilson. The SWAT teams moved in just moments after your signal cleared the area. We haven’t heard anything yet.”

I thanked him for his consideration and made my way into Shelby’s Place, taking my time as I passed the joyous pile, wishing I had the right to join in. I went into the bathroom and dressed myself. The tape fixing the GPS transmitter to my leg was painful coming off, but I didn’t mind. I gave it to the tech agent when I emerged from the house. “You guys were right,” I said. “It is waterproof.”

The Dunston clan was now in a small tight circle in the center of the front lawn. Victoria was talking hard and fast, telling her family what had happened to her, the words spilling out in a gush. Honsa was listening from a respectful distance. He came over when he saw me.

“Agent Wilson wants you to return to the scene,” he said. “Can you do that?”

“Sure.”

“Leave the Plymouth here for our forensics people.” He gestured at the tech agent. “We’ll drive you.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Agent Wilson will explain.” Honsa smiled a smile entirely unlike the professional smile he had continuously flashed during the past few days. This one was filled with glee. “You did good, McKenzie,” he said.

“Yeah, how ’bout that?”

Honsa returned to the Dunstons to listen to Victoria’s story; I had no doubt he would debrief her more formally later. I followed the tech agent across the lawn to his car. I caught Bobby Dunston’s attention as I passed. He looked at me, just looked, his eyes filled with words he did not speak, that he didn’t need to speak. He tilted his chin in a brief nod. I nodded back, and for a moment I felt like King Kong astride the Empire State Building, thinking I was the biggest thing there was. Until the planes came.

Scottie Thomforde was dead.

He was lying on his back on the sidewalk in front of the yellow house, the black ski mask clutched in his right hand. Someone had pumped a single round into his face and another into his chest. By the lack of blood on his white coveralls, I was willing to bet that he had died instantly. I said his name out loud.