Madman on a Drum (Mac McKenzie #5)

“What about… what about those guys?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Schroeder said. “Deal like this, I’d be surprised if it’s even reported. More likely, the dogmen will tidy up, pretend it didn’t happen—they don’t want the cops looking into their business, and they already have a bad enough rep, you know? Just in case, I’ll dump the MP7 first thing. Don’t worry about Buckman. I’ll talk to him. He’ll be cool.”

You can’t do that, can you? my inner voice wanted to know. Just leave them there, two dead men? Or is it three? The third man, at the entrance to the pole barn, did Schroeder get him? Did you? Where did that third shot go? You don’t even know. What about their families? Their friends? Somebody must care about them. The cops, when they investigate, if they investigate— would they be Anoka cops or Isanti cops? Where the hell is East Bethel, anyway? What county? Christ, this is so wrong. You have to tell people what happened. You have to tell your story. Otherwise, Dogman-G and his brother, and the other one—nobody will know what happened to them. It will be like a ghost story. You have nothing to worry about. You won’t get into trouble. After all, it was self-defense. Wasn’t it? They were trying to kill you. For money. If not for the Kevlar vest, you’d be dead. They would have dumped you in a shallow grave and taken your driver’s license to DuWayne Middleton to collect the price on your head. So they got what they deserved. No question. Anyone could see that. Still, you have to do something. Right? You can’t just leave them there, can you?

“Sure I can,” I said aloud.

“What’s that?” Schroeder asked.

“Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

“We’ll be home soon.”

“Good.”

“By the way, that’s ten grand you owe me.”

19

True to his word, Schroeder drove me to his office. He doused my ankle with antiseptic and ban daged it expertly. “You’ve done this before,” I told him, in between shots of Booker’s. Afterward, he brought my suitcase up from my car, and I changed clothes. I gave him five thousand in cash from my cache and told him I’d pay the balance later. I had the money. I just didn’t want to run the risk of getting caught short—living on the run can get expensive. He said he would trust me for it. To protect his investment, he crossed the river into St. Paul, following my Jeep Cherokee to the St. Paul Hotel, where I registered under the name Keith Kahla.

Schroeder escorted me to the Ambassador Suite. It was the size of two regular rooms and had a king-sized four-poster bed complete with down covers and pillows, plus a luxurious, fully furnished seating area that was separated from the bedroom by French doors. From the window, I had a terrific view of Rice Park and the Ordway Center for the Performing Arts, the St. Paul Public Library, and the Landmark Center beyond. I locked my weapons and cash in the room safe while Schroeder helped himself to the minibar.

“Is this your idea of hiding out?” he asked. He poured the contents of a tiny bottle of Scotch into a glass, regarded it carefully, and drank half. “You’re a classy guy, McKenzie.”

“Nothing but the best,” I said.

“Do you need me for the rest of the day?”

“No.”

“How ’bout dinner? I’ll buy.”

“No, thank you. I’m going to crawl into the shower, see if that’ll loosen up my back.” I could feel the bruises spreading even as I sat there. “Afterward, it’s room service and bed.”

“Good plan,” Schroeder said. He finished his Scotch, moved toward the door, stopped, and turned to look at me. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Because of what happened before, you might feel depressed, you might feel lonely, you might feel a lot of things.”

“Nothing I haven’t felt before,” I said.

“The thing is, call me if you decide to go wandering about. If you decide to check out a bar or something, if you decide you need to be around people. Okay?”

“I never did thank you.”

“It’s all part of the service.”

“Thank you anyway.”

Schroeder waved the words away and opened the door.

After he left, I took a business card out of my wallet and used my cell phone to call the number. Instead of “Hello,” the voice said, “Karen Studder.” As soon as I heard the voice, the depression and loneliness Schroeder predicted rolled over me like a rogue wave.

“Karen,” I said.

“McKenzie? I’m so happy you called. How are you?”

“I’m okay. Tell me, are you one of those law enforcement scofflaws who pick and choose the ordinances they’ll obey?”

“I occasionally drive over the speed limit. Why do you ask?”

“Have you been known to accept a bribe?”

She paused before answering. “What do you have in mind?”

“A hearty meal. Genial libations. A thousand dollars in cash.”

“For what?”