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

“There were fingerprints on Mike Randisi’s gun that didn’t belong to him or to Tracie.”

The sheriff knew I’d handled the gun, so I felt safe in asking, “Were they mine?”

“No. I ran your prints. Your prints are on file, did you know that?”

“I knew that.”

“Of course. You’re an ex-cop.”

He gave the “ex” a little more emphasis than I liked, but I said nothing.

“Any thoughts of who they might belong to?” the sheriff said.

“Not yet.” I held my thumb and index finger about an inch apart. “I’m that far away from putting it all together.”

“Putting it together, or taking it apart?”

I had nothing to say to that.

“I’ll be watching you, McKenzie. You try something like this again, what you did last night…” Big Joe Balk stared at me for five hard beats, then said, “Go home.”

I didn’t know if he meant go home to my hotel in Libbie or go home to St. Paul, and I didn’t ask.

It wasn’t a long drive from Mercer to Libbie, it just seemed that way. Partly it was because of the unending darkness. I did not see a single light besides my own headlamps from one city’s limits to the other, not even the light of a farmhouse or ranch. It was so cold I had to roll up my windows, and then I had to turn on my defrosters when the windows began to fog up. Mostly what made it such a long trek, though, was my conscience. I was wrong to set up Church the way I did, to destroy his house and pickup, and I knew it. I knew it before I did it.

“What the hell am I doing?” I said aloud.

I used to be a cop, a good cop, I think, for well over eleven years. I quit when I became independently wealthy. I was going to take care of my father; we were going to travel. Dad died before we had much of a chance. Still, I have no regrets about pulling the pin. Only the thing is, I liked being a cop. I liked helping people. I saw a lot of terrible things when I was in harness; I was forced to do some of those terrible things myself, yet I always slept well at night. When my head hit the pillow and I looked back on the day, no matter how lousy the day had been, I could always say, “The world’s a little bit better place because of what I did.” It made me feel good; it made me feel useful.

After Dad passed, I had money but no plans for it, not to invest it, not to spend it, not to give it away. It was just there, making my life simple and easy, yet not particularly fulfilling. I began to feel restless and out of place. To relieve the boredom and discontent, I started doing favors for my friends, and friends of friends—favors they couldn’t do for themselves. They were small favors at first. Gradually they became bigger and more dangerous. Yet they gave some meaning and significance to my life. And fun. Nina once compared me to a Wild West gunfighter, a white knight, and the Scarlet Pimpernel all in one breath. Certainly, it was a more interesting way to spend my time than working nine-to-five. Mostly, though, I did the favors to be useful. I did it to help make the world a better place. At least, that’s what I told myself. What should I tell myself now? I wondered.

Is the world a better place because I burned down Church’s house, because I blew up his truck? Yeah, he’s off the streets; he won’t be hurting anyone in the near future. Really, though, didn’t I merely substitute one asshole for another?

As for Libbie, it could blow away like a tumbleweed tomorrow and it wouldn’t bother me a bit. I came here for payback—Nina was right about that, too. I came here to get even with the man who used my name.

So where does the better world come in?

Have I ever made the world better?

Maybe I should heed Big Joe Balk’s advice, I told myself. Maybe I should go home to St. Paul. The difference between right and wrong seemed much more apparent there. Or was it that I never doubted myself there?

I continued to follow the onrushing, unchanging road.

Damn, it was a long drive.

Evan sat in an overstuffed chair, his chin resting on his chest, his arms crossed beneath his chin, his legs extended and crossed at the ankles, looking as if he were at the airport waiting for a plane and not expecting it anytime soon. I startled him when I opened the front door to the Pioneer Hotel. He leapt out of the chair and rubbed his eyes nervously. Probably he had been sleeping and wasn’t supposed to, I told myself.

“McKenzie,” he said.

“Hey.”

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

“You have? Why?”

“Sharren,” he said and paused. During the pause all kinds of terrible things came to mind.

“What about her?” I said.

“Sharren told me that if you had another late night, I was supposed to feed you something from the kitchen.”

I expressed my relief in one long exhale. “That’s okay,” I said at the end of it.

“It’s no trouble,” Evan said.

“It’s late, and I’m not that hungry.”

I moved toward the staircase, but Evan blocked me.

“You need to eat something,” he said.

“I’m fine, really.”

“You don’t understand.”