The Taking of Libbie, SD Read online

  You’re cutting it awfully close, my inner voice said.

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said aloud.

  It was a lot quieter inside the Tall Moon Tavern this time around. It was just as crowded with men and women seated at tables, in booths, and at the bar. Yet no one was laughing; they didn’t seem to be enjoying themselves as they had the first time I had gone there. Even the jukebox was silent. I wondered if they were in mourning. This was Tracie’s ground, after all, the place where everyone knew her name.

  I made my way to the bar, stepping between two empty stools. The bartender, Jeff, the one who had seemed so enamored with Tracie, reached me in seconds.

  “Ringneck Red Ale,” I said.

  He spun around, opened a cooler, produced a bottle, and levered off the cap. Seconds later the bottle and a glass were placed in front of me. While Jeff worked, I studied the crowd in the faded mirror behind the bar. An awful lot of people seemed to be studying me as well.

  “The pool table,” Jeff said. He spoke quietly, his lips barely moving, as if he were afraid someone beside me might hear him. I took a sip of the ale from the bottle. As I did, I turned my head so I could see the table in the mirror. Church was standing behind it. He was chalking a cue. Paulie was sitting on a stool off to the right, a stick in his hand as well. They were both grinning like bad poker players who had drawn to an inside straight. No doubt they were thinking about the brown paper bag on the seat of Church’s pickup truck. Silly boys.

  “Where’s Wayne?” I said.

  “Men’s room,” Jeff told me. He hunched himself over the bar and spoke in a tone so low the other customers couldn’t hear. “He’s—well, he’s upset about Tracie Blake. He was sweet on her, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “You were a friend of Tracie’s, so I’ll tell you. The night she died, she left early after speaking to someone on her cell. Wayne asked where she was headed. She said she had a date. Wayne was unhappy about it. He didn’t say anything while she was here, just smiled, you know Wayne, but he called her a few names after she left, you know the kind of names I mean.”

  “Did he do anything about her leaving?”

  “Nah. Wayne’s not the kind to throw a tantrum, at least not in public. He took off for an hour. I thought he might have gone to visit Mike Randisi, but I guess he just wanted to blow off some steam or something. He was fine when he came back.”

  “When was that?”

  “About ten. I remember because he started buying rounds for some of the regulars, which he doesn’t do too often, you know? Stayed until last call and then closed up. Usually I close up. He seemed happy enough when I left. Next day he heard what happened to Tracie. He hasn’t been good company since. I think they’re haunting him a little bit now, the names he called her. Shhhh.”

  The shhhh warned me that Wayne had emerged from the restroom and was making his way to the end of the bar. There was a shot glass waiting for him there, and a half-filled bottle of J&B. I got the impression that he had been sitting there a long time.

  “You’ve got some balls coming here, McKenzie,” he said. “I’ll give you that.”

  Jeff turned his head so Wayne couldn’t see and mouthed a single word to me—“Tracie.”

  “I am so sorry for your loss,” I said.

  “Balls,” he said again.

  I was genuinely concerned that I had offended him somehow.

  “Why do you say that?” I said.

  He gestured with his head toward the pool table. “Church has been talkin’ loud. He’s been sayin’ how he’s going to kick your ass if you showed up.” He raised his voice for everyone to hear. “Ain’t that right, Church?”

  “Soon as I’m done with this rack,” Church said.

  “Don’t hurry on my account,” I said.

  Church smirked at that. Paulie set his cue against the wall and started to make his way toward the door. I knew exactly where he was going and why. I glanced at my watch. It was too soon.

  “Hey, Paulie,” I said. “Sit your ass back down.”

  He stopped. Confusion clouded his eyes. He looked back at Church for clarity. Church jerked his head. Paulie continued toward the door.

  “I said sit down.” I slipped out from between the stools, making it clear that I was prepared to intercept him. Paulie stopped again. Again he looked to Church for guidance.

  “You got a problem, McKenzie?” Church said.

  “I’m going to beat you to death, you gutless piece of crap, and I don’t want shit-for-brains here sneaking up on me from behind while I do it.”

  The bar was as quiet as a movie theater during a Kate Winslet film. Patrons watched us intently, and I thought this was probably as much entertainment as some of them had had in years.

  Church tossed his cue stick down on the green felt. He circled the pool table and came toward me. I noticed he wasn’t moving quickly, and his eyes—they flicked back and forth, watching the audience watching him. Clearly he didn’t want to fight, yet he was afraid of losing face if he didn’t. I waited for him. The limp was gone, and he flexed the fingers of his broken hand. When he reached a spot on the warped floor that he thought was close enough, he stopped and lifted his hand, giving everyone in the tavern a good look at the white cast.

  “It’s going to be an unfair fight, but I’m not afraid of you,” he said. “That’s your speed, though, ain’t it? Sucker-punch a guy when he ain’t looking; fight a guy who’s got but one hand.”

  I felt my muscles tighten, felt my eyes grow wide at the insult. This was the part of the program where I was supposed to call him a liar, call him a hypocrite, remind him of all the cowardly crimes he had committed against people like the Dannes, and I would have. There was a clock on the wall behind Church that was made to resemble the logo of a St. Louis beer company. If it was accurate, I needed at least another ninety seconds. Only Wayne gave me the time I needed when he slammed his shot glass down on the bar top. He hopped off his stool, reached around the end of the bar, and came up with a small baseball bat with tattered and dirty white tape wrapped around the handle.

  “You fucker,” he said.

  I didn’t know if he meant Church or me until he turned toward the big man and raised the bat. I came up behind him as quickly as I could and grabbed the barrel of the bat and pulled it down.

  “No, no, no,” I chanted.

  “Let it go,” Wayne said.

  “It’s my party,” I told him.

  Wayne yanked the bat out of my hand and waved it at me.

  “Church bullied Tracie,” he said. “He insulted her cuz she wouldn’t have anything to do with him, and I let him. I let him.”

  Wayne glared at Church.

  Church waved his cast like a flag and took two steps backward.

  Paulie skipped to the front door.

  The bar patrons took a collective deep breath.

  The bomb exploded.

  There wasn’t a loud bang. It was more of a whooshing sound as the kitchen timer set off the makeshift detonator, which in turn ignited the gas and oil in the plastic jug, splattering the cab of Church’s pickup truck with both.

  “Oh my God,” someone shouted.

  I glanced at my watch. The bomb had gone off a good thirty seconds before I thought it would. I held the watch to my ear. You need a new battery, my inner voice said.

  People rushed to the windows of the bar.

  Paulie stood in the doorway, a look of terror on his face.

  “You said it was safe,” he said. “You said it wouldn’t go off.”

  “Shut up,” Church told him. He ran toward the door.

  “You said it wouldn’t blow up until we lit the fuse.”

  “Shut up.” Church shoved Paulie hard against the door frame. “Shut the fuck up.” He shoved him again. Paulie fell out of the bar. Church followed. He kicked Paulie while he was down. “Shut up,” he repeated.

  A half-dozen patrons followed Church and Paulie out of the tavern. A few of t
hem rushed to move their vehicles away from the F150. The two nearest the pickup managed to start and drive their cars off just as the Molotov cocktail that Church had prepared and left in the brown bag on his seat exploded. The bang it made wasn’t quite as thunderous as it is in the movies, yet it was loud enough to make everyone duck and powerful enough to shatter the windshield.

  A siren screamed from down the county road; red and blue lights flicked in the darkness. A moment later, a City of Libbie police cruiser turned into the parking lot and came to a screeching halt beneath the light pole. The light at the top of the pole was a pale and sickly thing compared to the brilliance of the fire. The car was still rocking when Chief Gustafson jumped out.

  “Do something,” Church said. “Save my truck.”

  The chief didn’t even try. Instead, he forced his way to the head of the crowd, turned, and spread his arms wide as if he were herding small, dumb animals.

  “Everyone get back,” he said. “C’mon now, step back, everyone step back.”

  Somehow he managed to force the crowd to retreat about ten paces. That was as far as we would go. The fire compelled our attention despite the danger.

  Fumes from burning plastic, rubber, metal, and the various synthetic materials that went into making the vehicle wafted over the parking lot. Jeff was standing next to me. He took a deep breath, probably not a wise thing to do.

  “Don’t you just love that new car smell,” he said.

  It took hardly any time for the flames to reach the gas tank. The truck didn’t explode—that only happens in the movies. Instead, it made another loud whoosh as the gas simply ignited. That was followed by several loud popping sounds. I thought the shotgun shells going off might have caused it, but I was mistaken. It was the tires melting.

  Church was screaming. He made several efforts to get closer to the vehicle—I had no idea what he was trying to accomplish. Each time, the heat pushed him back. Most of what he had to say was unintelligible. Only the words “Call the fire department” were loud and clear.

  “I did,” the chief said. “They can’t come. They’re already on a call.”

  “What call?”

  “It’s your house,” Gustafson said. “They said it was completely engulfed in flames.”

  “My house?”

  “I’m sorry,” the chief said.

  “My house!”

  Church continued shouting, mostly obscenities, until he doubled over and began to gag as if he were about to be sick. I don’t know if the fumes got to him or it was something else. For a moment, I felt sorry for him. Then I thought about Rick and Cathy Danne, and all of his other victims, and the feeling went away.

  He saw me out of the corner of his eye.

  “You did this,” he said. “You did this.”

  Church rushed at me. Wayne stepped in to block his path. Church pushed him away. Wayne swung his baseball bat and hit him squarely on the point of the hip. Church went down with an agonizing scream. Chief Gustafson crossed the gravel lot and yanked the bat from Wayne’s hands.

  “Are you crazy?” he said.

  “He insulted Tracie,” Wayne said.

  “You did this, you,” Church said.

  “Me?” I said. “What did I do?”

  Church tried to rise from the ground. The chief bent to give him aid. “He did this,” Church told him.

  “What are you talking about?” I said. “You’re the one who had a gasoline bomb in his car, not me. Ain’t that right, Paulie?”

  Paulie was standing near the door of the tavern, both arms clutching his stomach where Church had kicked him. He looked as confused as ever.

  “What about it, Paulie?” I said. “Everyone heard what you said.”

  “What did you say?” the chief said.

  “Shut up,” Church said. “Paulie.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” Paulie said.

  Jeff stepped next to him. “Yes, you did, when the fire started. The fire started, and you were talking to Church.”

  “No.”

  “What did he say?” the chief asked.

  “He was looking at Church,” Jeff answered. “When the fire started in the truck, he looked at Church and he said, ‘You promised that it wouldn’t blow up until we lit the fuse.’”

  “That’s right,” one of the bar patrons said.

  “I heard him say it,” said another.

  “Shut up,” Church said. “You got rights.”

  The chief put a hand on Church’s chest and eased him backward. After he made room, he stepped between Church and Paulie. Paulie shook his head.

  “I didn’t do anything,” he said.

  “Talk to me, Paulie,” said the chief.

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You’re a liar,” Wayne said. “We all heard you.”

  “No.”

  “It was McKenzie,” Church said. “He did it. He set the fire. Oh, you bastard.”

  “That’s crazy,” I said. “Why would I do that?”

  “To get even.”

  “For what? What have you ever done to me?”

  Chief Gustafson kept his hand on Church’s chest, even while he stared at Paulie.

  “I’m going to give you one more chance to tell me the truth,” he said.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Paulie said.

  “All right, you’re under arrest.”

  “No.”

  Paulie tried to run. Wayne and another guy grabbed him by the arms. The chief tucked the bat under his arm and made a slow and deliberate production out of producing his handcuffs. Paulie stared at them as if they were dental instruments.

  “No,” he said. He squirmed, but the two men held fast.

  “You have the right to remain silent—”

  “But I didn’t do anything.”

  “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law—”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “You have the right to have an attorney present—”

  “It was Church,” Paulie said. He would have pointed at him, except Wayne and the other bar patron had his arms pinned. “He had a Molotov cocktail. He was going to smash it on McKenzie’s car like he did against Danne’s house last night.”

  “Shut your fucking mouth,” Church said. He lunged for Paulie, but the chief kept him back.

  “It was all Church,” Paulie said. “I just watched.”

  “You lying bastard,” Church said. “You threw the bomb.” He held his hand up, the one covered with a cast. “I lit it, but he threw it.”

  “I don’t know how things work in South Dakota,” I said. “In Minnesota, that is what prosecuting attorneys refer to as an excited utterance, and according to the U.S. Supreme Court, it’s admissible as evidence.”

  “You bastard,” Church screamed.

  This time it was me he charged. The chief intercepted him again, grabbing him by the shoulders, spinning him down to the gravel, and slapping the cuffs over his wrists behind his back as quickly and efficiently as ever I’ve seen.

  Don’t you just love it when a plan comes together? my inner voice said.

  There were six full-time deputies, two part-time deputies, and an administrative assistant working for the Perkins County Sheriff’s Department, and Big Joe Balk called them all in. Mostly it was a matter of crowd control. Balk had Church in one holding cell, Paulie in a second, Wayne in the third, Chief Gustafson dozing in the interrogation room, and eleven other witnesses scattered throughout the county courthouse in Mercer. The county attorney, who ran for the office unopposed, and his assistant, neither of whom had ever prosecuted a felony in their lives, were desperate to keep everyone separate until they took their statements.

  Personally, I didn’t think prosecution was going to be much of an issue. Starting from the moment Chief Gustafson called the sheriff for assistance, Paulie talked. He talked about how Church smashed a Molotov cocktail against the Dannes’ house the night before and how he planned to do the same to my fancy ca
r—that was his word, “fancy.” He spoke of seven other fires as well, including the bombing of Christopher Kramme’s plane shortly after he returned to Libbie with Tracie. He said how this was all Church’s doing, that it was Church’s standard mode of revenge against all who wronged him in one manner or another, and how he didn’t want to help but Church made him. Later, after the county attorney set up a tape recorder and video camera in a small office and read him his rights for a third time, Paulie said it all over again. Meanwhile, Church kept his mouth shut, demanded his rights, demanded an attorney. That was until he learned that Paulie was spilling his guts in front of a camera, and then he couldn’t help himself; he started talking, too.

  “Sounds like a slam dunk to me,” I said.

  Big Joe Balk leaned back in his chair and regarded me carefully from the far side of his desk.

  “Do you realize, there hadn’t been a single murder, rape, armed robbery, or aggravated assault committed in Perkins County in three years before you came along?” he said.

  “I’m sure that’s because this is such a law-abiding community.”

  “Tell me something, McKenzie—when I investigate the fires in Church’s home, in his car, and I will investigate the fires, what do you think I’ll find?”

  “I think you’ll find that a confessed serial arsonist, who has been linked to at least eight fires in the past few years, yet had always managed to evade arrest despite the best efforts of the Perkins Country Sheriff’s Department, accidentally burned down his own property because he improperly handled the materials he was using to build his firebombs.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “That’s what I hope.”

  “Paulie said that you wanted Church to meet you at the Tall Moon Tavern at nine o’clock last night. Why would you want that?”

  “I’m sure Paulie is mistaken. I had no reason for wanting to see Church.”

  “Why were you there?”

  “To get a Ringneck Ale. I like it.”

  “You can get that anywhere.”

  “I didn’t know that. I’m new here.”

  “Uh-huh. So you weren’t attempting to lure Church to the Tall Moon so you could burn down his house?”