The Taking of Libbie, SD

  Also by David Housewright

  FEATURING RUSHMORE MCKENZIE

  Jelly’s Gold

  Madman on a Drum

  A Hard Ticket Home

  Tin City

  Pretty Girl Gone

  Dead Boyfriends

  FEATURING HOLLAND TAYLOR

  Penance

  Practice to Deceive

  Dearly Departed

  THE

  TAKING

  OF

  LIBBIE, SD

  David Housewright

  MINOTAUR BOOKS

  NEW YORK

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THE TAKING OF LIBBIE, SD. Copyright © 2010 by David Housewright. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Housewright, David, 1955–

  The taking of Libbie, SD / David Housewright.—Ist ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-312-55996-0

  1. McKenzie, Mac (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Private investigators—Fiction. 3. Kidnapping—Fiction. 4. Ex-police officers—Fiction. 5. Swindlers and swindling—Fiction. 6. South Dakota—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3558.O8668T35 2010

  813′.54—dc22

  2010008712

  First Edition: June 2010

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Reneé Marie Valois,

  forever

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I want to acknowledge my debt to Roxanne Cardinal, Gary Dyshaw, Keith Kahla, Eric Odney, Alison J. Picard, and Reneé Valois.

  CHAPTER ONE

  They shattered my front door with a metal battering ram at exactly four forty-seven and twenty-three seconds a.m. That’s when my alarm system began whooping and a forced-entry message was dispatched to both my security company and the City of St. Anthony Police Department. The siren shook me awake, but I didn’t react to it the way I should have. Instead, I remained in bed during those first crucial seconds and wondered what was wrong with my alarm clock and why in hell I had set it in the first place. By the time I realized what the siren meant, they were already on the stairs. I swung myself out of bed and made for the door. They reached it first, two men dressed for combat, one tall, one short. The short one carried an M26 Taser gun—I recognized the black body and vibrant green nose in the soft gray light filtering through my open window. I drifted back into the bedroom, my hands raised to shoulder height. The tall one said, “Rushmore McKenzie?” I lunged for my bedside lamp. It was the only weapon within reach. The short intruder pointed the Taser and squeezed the trigger. One barbed electrode hit me high in the upper shoulder, and the other imbedded itself just above the waistband of my blue shorts. My body was immediately flooded with fifty thousand volts. The electrical charge told every muscle to move at once, which caused them all to contract against each other. My body locked up. I hit the floor like a bag of sand tossed from the back of a truck.

  They waited until the Taser ran through its five-second cycle, and then it was gloved hands yanking the electrodes out of my naked skin, rolling me onto my back and grabbing my arms. I was still twitching, still moaning from pain as the taller man slipped a double-loop restraint over both my wrists and pulled hard on the locking mechanism, securing my hands in front of me. The disposable cuffs were made of high-tensile-strength nylon that was just as effective as stainless steel. The tall man grabbed one shoulder. After he holstered the Taser, the short man took the other, and together they dragged me from my bedroom and down the carpeted stairs. A moment later we were out the front door. My bare feet scraped against the hard wood porch planks; my heels bounced on the concrete steps leading from the porch. I felt the pain, and it jolted me out of my stupor. I began to struggle. I yelled for help. My captors didn’t seem to mind. They hustled me to a four-door sedan parked in front of my house. The trunk was already open; the trunk light had been removed.

  “I got north,” a voice said. The smaller man released my shoulder and grabbed both of my legs. I tried to kick myself free and failed. They lifted and swung me toward the opening of the trunk. “One, two, three.” On three they let fly. My head skimmed the lid of the trunk, and my knee hit the rim as I tumbled inside.

  “The battering ram,” the shorter man said.

  “Leave it,” his partner answered.

  He slammed the trunk lid shut, enclosing me in darkness. I heard car doors opening and closing, the engine starting; I felt the car lurch forward and pick up speed. I pressed my back against the trunk lid and pushed. It didn’t budge. I found myself breathing harder than the exertion demanded. I caught my breath when I heard the distant wail of police sirens. Even in my befuddled condition, I knew it was the cavalry responding to my security alert. The car slowed as the sirens grew louder. The cops seemed to be right on top of us. “I’m here, I’m here,” I shouted—but the sirens passed and the car began to gain speed. The sirens slowly faded to silence.

  The inside of my mouth became dry, and it was difficult to swallow, although sweat seemed to flow from every pore. I felt light-headed. I began to tremble. My thoughts swung from utter helplessness to denial—it’s just a dream, go back to sleep. “No!” I heard the word, but I don’t know if it was spoken aloud or just inside my head. I lay on my back and kicked the trunk lid with my bare feet. I shouted obscenities. I screamed, “Let me out.”

  Time passed, yet in my panic I couldn’t say how much. Finally—Stop it, my inner voice told me. Just stop it. I rested against the trunk floor; the vibration and noise of the moving car became a rumble in my stomach. Think it through.

  I started with Why. Why was this happening to me? I couldn’t answer that question without knowing Who. Who were these men who so efficiently snatched me from my bed? Professionals, obviously. Yet who hired them? I had many enemies, acquired back in my days as a cop and more recently as a kind of knight-errant doing favors for friends. Plenty of them would be happy to see me dead. Except, if that was the case, why the Taser? Why not a twelve-gauge sawed-off? Maybe it was a kidnapping for ransom—I had enough money to make it worthwhile. However, I had no family, no friends with access to my funds. There was no one to pay a ransom. Which brought me to What. I had been kidnapped, manacled, and locked in the trunk of a speeding car with no one to help me, that’s what.

  So, what are you going to do about it?

  I tried to calm myself, slow my respiration, slow my pulse. It became easier when I realized that the kidnappers had made a mistake. They cuffed my hands in front of me instead of behind. That allowed me to work my fingers along the edge of the trunk lid, frantically searching for a release catch. There wasn’t any, but if I could find something to slip between the lid and the base … The compartment was large enough for me to roll over, and I began searching for a tire iron or jack. I found neither. Nor was there a spare.

  I lay in the darkness. My thoughts were slanting toward despair.

  There’s no way out, I told myself.

  There is always a way, my inner voice said.

  “There’s no way out,” I said aloud.

  Quitters never win and winners never quit.

  “This isn’t a goddamn hockey game.”

  Think it through.

  “Goddamn, sonuvabitch … Hey.”

  Taillights. A car has taillights. How do you gain access to the taillights should a bulb burn out? Through the trunk.

  I reached in darkness for the wall of the trunk and eagerly followed it to t
he corner. I continued to explore with my fingers until I located a small plastic panel. I felt a recessed tab. I dug my fingers into it and pried the panel off. Suddenly there was light. It came in the color red and filtered through the taillight lens. It allowed me to see a metal bracket and the hard plastic assembly that it held in place. Wires led to the back of the assembly and gave juice to the lightbulbs. I grabbed hold of the wires, considered yanking them out, and then thought better of it. If I damaged the taillights, the driver would know the first time he used his turn signal. Instead, I took a firm grip on the back of the light assembly and twisted counterclockwise. It was hard work at that angle, yet I finally managed to give it a half turn, popped the assembly free, and dropped it inside the trunk. I was so pleased with what I had done, I maneuvered my body around in the cramped space so that I could get at the other taillight. This one was more difficult—I was forced to use my left hand—but I eventually removed the assembly. For practical purposes, the car no longer had taillights or signal lights. Maybe a county cop or highway patrolman would notice—the car was moving at a steady pace that seemed fast to me, so I guessed we were on a highway or freeway. The lack of lights might even cause an accident. I had no real desire to be in a trunk during a rear-end collision, yet at that moment I would have settled for anything.

  Now what?

  I decided it would be nice if I could bust off the taillight lens, ease my hand through the opening, and wave it about. Certainly that would attract the attention of other drivers—the morning rush hour should begin soon, I reminded myself. Except I couldn’t reach the lens; the metal bracket was in the way. I yanked hard; it was welded firmly to the frame of the car. If I had a tire iron I could punch the lens out through the hole in the bracket, only that took me back to where I started.

  Wait …

  I had no idea how long I had been in the trunk, but the sun had risen high enough that red-tinted sunshine allowed me to see the seams of the blue-brown floor mat that I was resting on. Of course, I told myself. The floor mat disguised a compartment beneath me. The spare tire, along with the jack and tire iron, was in the compartment. The problem was getting my cuffed hands under the compartment lid while my weight was resting on top of it. I maneuvered my backside as far into the corner of the trunk as possible and went up on my toes, even as I pressed my back against the lid. That gave me room to work with; however, with my weight on it, I couldn’t lift the edge of the lid more than an inch or two. Still, I managed to slip my fingers beneath it. The lid was made of thin wood fiber covered by the carpet. I pulled upward. I was determined that if I couldn’t lift the mat, I’d break it. Only it was stubborn. My first attempt failed. So did my second. On my third attempt I pulled as mightily on it as I could, ignoring the pain shooting through my fingertips. Your life depends on this, my inner voice warned me. “Break, you bastard,” I said aloud. Every muscle in my body strained against the lid. Sweat poured off my forehead into my eyes. Then the wood fiber fractured. Then it broke. It sounded like the crack of gunfire inside the trunk, and my head and shoulders made an angry thud on the lid as I flew backward, yet my kidnappers either didn’t hear or chose to disregard the noise.

  The carpet remained intact, yet I was able to fold the broken piece of wood fiber on top of the rest of the lid. I uncovered a hole big enough to accommodate a hand—but only one. I rolled onto my shoulder and pressed my back and hips against the trunk wall and lid as I eased my right hand under the wood fiber while slipping my left hand over the top of it. I pushed as deeply as I could until the broken edge of the mat butted up against the strong nylon restraint. My knuckles skimmed over hard rubber but nothing else. I removed my hand and worked the disposable cuffs farther up my wrists. I got maybe an extra inch to work with, although the nylon was now cutting off the circulation in my hands. I eased my right hand back into the hole again. This time my fingertips touched metal. I flicked at it, and it moved toward me a fraction of an inch. I flicked at it some more until I was able to get a firm grip. I strained and manipulated and pulled until at last I was able to ease the tire iron through the hole. Actually, not a tire iron but a lug wrench—one end had a socket that fit over the wheel’s lug nuts, the other a prying tip that was used primarily to remove hubcaps.

  He shoots, he scores, my inner voice announced.

  My arms and hands were aching, so I dropped the wrench on the floor while I worked the cuffs down to the narrow part of my wrists. I flexed my fingers until circulation returned. My entire body was now smooth with perspiration; I felt the sweat soaking my blue boxers.

  “Okay,” I said aloud.

  Once I had the wrench, I turned my attention back to the trunk lid. It didn’t take long to realize that there was no opening to insert the tip, no way to get leverage. So again I twisted and turned my body until I had access to the corner of the trunk. I jammed the lug wrench in the space between the metal bracket and the car frame, pressing the pry tip hard against the red-tinted lens. Nothing happened. I pressed harder. Given how many busted taillights I’ve seen over the years, I expected the lens to be fairly fragile. It wasn’t. I pounded on it with the curled tip without creating so much as a scratch.

  Put your back into it, my inner voice ordered.

  Harder and harder I struck the wrench against the lens. Finally it cracked. The crack grew. A small triangle of plastic chipped off. A hole formed. The hole grew larger. I pushed the wrench through the hole as far as possible. Would anyone on the highway see it? A better question, would anyone be alarmed enough to do something about it? Probably not, I told myself. I needed something else. All I had was my shorts.

  Should I dangle them out of the hole like a flag? I asked myself. Well, why not?

  Before I could remove them, though, the taillights inside the trunk lit up, and the car began to slow. One bulb began to blink—a right turn. It went out. A few moments later, it blinked again—another right. The car sped up, and then the brake lights flared. The blinking light said left turn. As the car turned, I heard the squeal of tires followed by the bellow of a horn.

  “Yes,” I said aloud. This was going to work.

  I hooked my thumbs under the waistband of my shorts and began to ease them down, trying to work them over my hips. The lights flared again; the car slowed to a halt. A stop sign? I wondered. No. Car doors opened and closed. Dammit.

  I heard a muffled voice. “Look at this. Do you believe this?” An unseen hand jiggled the lug wrench and pushed it back into the trunk.

  “Now we know why that asshole flipped us the bird back there,” a second voice said.

  I pulled my shorts up.

  Knuckles rapped on the trunk lid. “Hey, McKenzie. Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you,” I said. What else was I going to do, pretend I wasn’t there?

  “We’re going to pop the trunk. Don’t do anything stupid, okay? We don’t want to have to Taser you again.” Apparently he expected a reply, because he rapped on the trunk lid again and said, “Did you hear me?”

  “I heard you.”

  There was a popping sound, and the trunk opened. Harsh sunlight flooded the compartment. I brought my hands up to shield my eyes.

  “Roll out of there.” The tall one was speaking. The short one was standing off to the side. He had a clear shot of me with his Taser.

  “Who are you guys?” I said.

  “C’mon, c’mon, we have a long way to go yet.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see when we get there.”

  “Is it a secret?”

  “Get out of the trunk.”

  I managed to swing my legs over the edge and, as the man said, rolled out of there, using the back of the car to leverage myself more or less into a standing position—my legs were weak and uncertain. I looked around. We were in a small clearing surrounded by poplar trees. A dirt road led away from the clearing. There was another car, a Ford Taurus, parked ten yards away and facing the road. The car had South Dakota plates. There were no bui
ldings and no sound of traffic.

  “We expected you to be rolled up into a ball and weeping like a child by now,” the short man said. “We underestimated you.”

  “I’ll say,” said the taller man. “Turn around, McKenzie. Go ’head.”

  I turned.

  The shorter man pressed the business end of the Taser against the small of my back. “Don’t even think of moving,” he said.

  “What should I call you guys?”

  “Lord and Master.”

  “Which is which?”

  “Hold your hands out,” the taller man said. I did what he told me. He reached across with a tool that reminded me of small wire cutters except it didn’t have any sharp edges. He hooked the cutter over the nylon straps and severed them. The cuffs fell away. “Put your hands behind your back.”

  “What is this all about?” I asked.

  “Hands behind your back.”

  The shorter man nudged my spine with the Taser. “You heard him,” he said.

  I did what the taller man told me, and he recuffed my wrists, properly this time. “C’mon,” he said.

  The shorter man stepped backward, but didn’t lower the Taser, as the taller man spun me around. He pushed me toward the Taurus. I nearly stumbled but managed to keep my feet. When we reached the rear of the car, the taller man popped the trunk.

  “Inside,” he said.

  “Why are you taking me to South Dakota?” I said.

  The two kidnappers exchanged surprised glances as if I had guessed a deep, dark secret.

  “C’mon, fellas,” I said. “You can tell me. Why are you doing this?”

  “For the money, why else?” said the smaller man.

  “What money?”

  “The reward.”

  “Reward?”

  “Five thousand dollars.”

  “Plus expenses,” said the taller man.

  “For what? What did I do?”