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

“You’ll be here when I get back, right?” he said.

“Sheriff, I have one more thing left to do, and then I’m going home,” I told him.

“Your testimony—”

“I’ll come back for that.”

“You’d better. I’d hate to have to come down and get you.”

“You could always send bounty hunters. Speaking of which…” I patted the sheriff’s foot. “Take care, Big Joe.”

“You, too.”

I paused at the door and looked back at him. The sheriff had told Jeff that he had killed someone once, and I wondered about that. I also wondered about his Glock.

“I still can’t believe that you carry a piece without a round in the chamber,” I said.

“I never thought it was necessary,” he said. “Before you came along, McKenzie, this was a peaceful community.”

The city council meeting was being held in a large conference room inside the Libbie government building across the street and down the block from the Libbie Medical Center. Although many people were starting to drift away by the time I arrived, the room was still crowded. Most of the citizens had satisfied expressions on their faces. Whatever spiel the mayor was giving them seemed to be working. I heard the end of his remarks as I entered the room.

“Our tax money will soon be returned to the city,” Miller said. “The funds that the various businesses invested will soon be returned to Main Street. The future of the City of Libbie remains secure.”

A smattering of applause followed.

Most of the people were sitting in rows of folding chairs in front of the conference room tables. The tables were arranged in a V pattern, the arms of the V extending toward the audience. Two city council members sat behind the tables—Len Hudalla and Terri Spiess—one on each side. There was a nameplate for George Humphrey, but he was absent, and the space reserved for Tracie Blake was left empty. Ed Bizek also sat behind the table. All things considered, he seemed surprisingly subdued to me. Dewey Miller sat at the base of the V, making it seem as if everything funneled toward him. He saw me enter the city council chambers, and a kind of quizzical expression colored his face.

“What are you doing here, McKenzie?” he said. “You’re not a citizen of Libbie.”

I ignored him and marched purposefully along the aisle between the wall and the rows of chairs toward the conference tables.

“What business do you have before this council?” Miller said.

I edged past the arms of the V and moved to Miller’s chair.

“What do you want?”

As I approached, Miller brought his arms up like a boxer fending off body blows. I pushed his arms apart and grabbed him by the collars of his shirt and suit jacket. I yanked him off of his chair, surprised by how easy it was—he was a big man, after all.

Must be adrenaline, my inner voice said.

I half threw, half pushed Miller toward the aisle. He stumbled, nearly fell, yet managed to keep his feet. As I approached him, he spun about and tried to hit me with a long roundhouse right. I ducked under the blow, using his momentum to spin him back toward the aisle, and shoved him hard. He bounced off the wall and back into my hands. I grabbed him by the collars again and started pushing and dragging him along the aisle.

“Stop it, stop it,” Miller said. “You’re insane.”

Half the people in the room were on their feet, including all of the city officials. They screamed, they shouted, they demanded to know what the hell I thought I was doing, yet no one moved to help Miller. Maybe they thought I really was insane and were afraid to interfere.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” I said.

Miller grabbed an empty chair as we passed and swung it around, hitting me in the kneecap. The pain was enough to cause me to release my grip. I bent to clutch my knee.

The hard way.

Miller tried to hit me again. I slapped his fist away from my face, and it passed harmlessly over my shoulder. I grabbed the lapel of his suit jacket. He tried to escape by spinning away and pulling his arms free from the sleeves of the jacket. The jacket came off, and I tossed it down on the floor. Miller ran up the aisle and nearly reached the door before I grabbed him again by the collar. I yanked backward. I heard the shirt rip and saw several buttons fly off. Miller waved his arms as he fell back toward me. I leaned forward, catching him, then reversing his momentum, and shoved him out of the conference room door.

Miller was shouting many things now, yet they all amounted to the same thing—“Let me go.” Eventually he added, “I’ll kill you.”