The Taking of Libbie, SD (Mac McKenzie #7)

“You won’t be getting much from her,” she said. “Very cold, that one. Very dry.”

I was startled by the remark, and if I had been standing closer to Sharren I might have said something or done something about it. I don’t know why I had become defensive of Tracie, yet I had. Or maybe it’s just that my nerves were still keyed up by what had happened to me earlier; I wanted payback and didn’t particularly care who suffered for it.

I said nothing, did nothing, except turn and climb the stairs.

CHAPTER THREE

My room was on the second floor. It was small and stylish with a soaring ceiling and black-and-white tiles in the bathroom. There was a double bed with a blue-green spread and a mattress that sagged slightly in the middle. The other furnishings were simple oak—a desk, a chair, an armoire, and a table in front of a window facing First Street. Inside the armoire was a TV that offered HBO; a phone sat on the desk.

I dropped the bags on the bed and went straight for the phone. There was something instantly comforting about it. It gave me a connection to the world—to my world—that the kidnappers had taken from me. Unfortunately, the feeling lasted only until I picked up the receiver and listened to the dial tone. I couldn’t remember the numbers of my friends, of the people I wanted to call. I hadn’t memorized them; I had seen no need. Instead, I programmed all the numbers into my cell or the phone hanging on the wall in my kitchen. When I wanted to make a call, I would just scroll through the memory for a name. Without my cell—I returned the receiver to the cradle. My headache became worse.

Still, there was directory assistance. The instructions attached to the base of the phone told me that local calls were free but that there was a surcharge for long distance. What the hell, I decided—Miller was paying for it. I dialed nine, followed by four-one-one. After a mechanical voice recited the number I requested, the telephone company announced that it would dial the number for a nominal fee. Fine with me. A moment later, I was connected to the Minneapolis office of the FBI, and a moment after that I reached Special Agent Brian Wilson.

“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.