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

I bet he knows where he’s going.

I figure there are three modes in life. There’s action mode, during which the present and the immediate future are all that concern me. It’s the mode I slide into when I’m working, doing all those favors for people, setting up arsonists like Church. In action mode, there is little room for reflection; everything moves with extreme speed; vision narrows to only those people and things within reach. It’s an intense living in the moment. Time stands still. True, immediately afterward, time becomes a living thing again. It sweeps forward at its own deliberate pace. One can anticipate the future and all the responsibilities that it entails—to family, to friends, to oneself—and be weighed down by them. It is like coming down from an immense high. Still, I liked it.

Then there is intellectual mode, where most activities take place inside the head. This is where I spend most of my time—reading, listening to music, going to ball games, enjoying a few beverages with the boys, whipping up gourmet meals for my friends, attempting (badly) to emulate Tiger Woods on a golf course, studying the habits of the ducks that live on the pond in my backyard, working out, taking martial arts training, practicing with my guns, solving puzzles like where the Imposter came from and where he went. It’s simply the exploration of life, of keeping yourself open to its countless surprises. I liked this, too.

Then there is where I was now—plodding mode. I was simply moving forward, step by step, hour by hour, into an unknown future, trying to maintain a straight line and hoping for the best. There was no cheering, no cursing, no real thought. I was merely putting one foot in front of the other and trusting, hoping, that eventually I would get somewhere worth going. I think this is how most people go about their day-to-day lives. It is what Oliver Wendell Holmes meant when he wrote, “Alas for those that never sing but die with all their music in them.”

“Hell with it,” I said aloud. “I have never lived like that; I’ll be damned if I’m going to die like that.”

To prove it, I started singing, mostly tunes from the American Songbook, until it became too exhausting to walk and sing at the same time.

Hours passed. My legs became sore, especially my ankles. You’d think a guy who’s played hockey thirty weeks out of the year since he was five years old would have stronger ankles, but there you are. My feet were beginning to ache as well, and I was sure I was developing blisters; my sneakers were not designed for this kind of travel.

I halted and tried to calculate my progress. It was impossible. A backward glance showed me nothing. The prairie was like the ocean. There was no end to it, no edge lined with mountains or coastal waters or lush forests. Near seemed the same as far out there.

I reminded myself that a man in fairly decent shape walking briskly should cover as much as five miles an hour. Only that’s over a flat surface, and despite what you might have heard, the Great Plains are not flat; at least they aren’t as flat as a football field or a baseball diamond. There were plenty of low, rolling hills to contend with. Plus, the damn vegetation. Along with the wheatgrass—see, I remembered what it was called—there were other prairie grasses to grab my shoes, pull at my legs, and slow my pace. There was a brown-colored grass that was several inches higher than the wheatgrass that reminded me of knitting needles. Another grass grew in dense mounds eighteen to twenty-four inches high with slender blue-green stems that sometimes turned a radiant mahogany red. Then there were a few grasses that I actually recognized—sunflowers and golden rods.

Okay, you’re not walking briskly, but you are walking steadily, I told myself, even though every step caused my ribs to throb with pain. Call it four miles an hour.

C’mon.

Three and a half, then. Make it—I studied my watch some more—twenty-six and a quarter miles since I started. That’s pretty damn good.

Except that you haven’t eaten anything in twenty-two hours, or drunk anything since the cups of coffee you had last night at the Perkins County Courthouse. Except that you’re slowing down—admit it, you’re slowing down a lot. Except that you have no idea how much farther you need to go.

Shuddup.

Remember all that distilled water you poured into the ditch yesterday? What a waste.