The Taking of Libbie, SD Read online

  I shouted back, “I bet that hurt.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Give it up, Jeff. You’ve got nowhere to go.”

  I heard the ignition of the SUV cranking, but the engine refused to turn over. I carefully glanced around the corner again. Jeff was still in the vehicle, his head down, staring at the console, the gun held carelessly outside the window and pointed more or less at the ground.

  “It’s over,” I said.

  Jeff lifted his head, an expression of pure panic across his face. I didn’t like the expression. Panic made him dangerous.

  “Think, Jeff. Think.”

  Only Jeff wasn’t thinking past his gun. He raised it, trying to point it at me.

  I fired two rounds into the SUV’s front tire. The tire exploded, and the front end of the vehicle listed hard to the left. I ducked back behind the corner before Jeff could get another shot off.

  “Think about it, Jeff,” I said.

  “I’ll kill you,” he said.

  I heard the door to the SUV open. He was coming.

  Sonuvabitch.

  I spun around the corner and went into a kneeling position, my right knee firmly planted on the ground, my left knee up, my left foot flat, my left elbow resting against the front of my knee. I sighted along the short barrel.

  Jeff seemed surprised to see me. He was carrying the Magnum low with both hands. When I came around the corner he started to raise it.

  “Stop it. Stop it now.”

  The voice came from behind Jeff.

  It belonged to Big Joe Balk.

  He had circled around the tavern from the other side.

  He was holding a standard-issue twelve-gauge Remington pump-action shotgun, the stock hard against his right shoulder. I saw the blood from his left shoulder saturating his uniform. The knife had been removed, and for a brief moment I could imagine him pulling it out himself.

  Geezus.

  The sheriff was pointing the shotgun at the back of Jeff’s head, but he was speaking to both of us.

  “Drop the guns,” he said. “Drop ’em. I mean it. I’ll kill you, Jeff. I’ve done it before, I’ll do it again. You know I will. Drop the goddamn guns.”

  “I didn’t mean to do it,” Jeff said. “I wasn’t going to hurt anyone. I was just going to mess with them, joke with them.”

  “Drop the guns,” the sheriff said.

  “I went over there and the back door was unlocked and I went inside and I heard Tracie laughing and I yelled, ‘Sounds like a party,’ and Mike came into the kitchen. I was joking but he was angry and he started yelling and the gun was on the counter and we wrestled over it and it went off and then Tracie came running out and started screaming—I didn’t mean to shoot her. I didn’t.”

  “It’s over,” I said.

  “Drop your guns,” the sheriff said.

  Jeff raised the Magnum.

  He raised it slowly.

  My finger tightened around the trigger of the Glock.

  The sheriff screamed, “No, no, no.”

  Jeff hesitated.

  One beat.

  Two beats.

  Three.

  He dropped the Magnum.

  “You, too, McKenzie,” the sheriff said.

  I deactivated the Glock and set it gently on the ground.

  Nothing in his experience had prepared the Perkins County attorney for the crime wave he suddenly had on his hands. The arson charges against Church and Paulie were one thing—but three murders? Fraud? And whatever the hell was going on at the First Integrity State Bank of Libbie? When he ran for the job, he thought all he’d have to do was attend county commissioner meetings twice a month and try to keep the elected officials from doing something stupid when they let out the snowplowing bids. He certainly didn’t sign on for this. So he called the South Dakota state attorney general and asked for help. The AG said it was on its way.

  At least that was what Sheriff Balk told me while I watched Nancy Gustafson carefully stitch his shoulder while he lay on an emergency room gurney. I didn’t know the extent of his wound, only that the stitches would have to do until he could get to a real hospital; Big Joe was expected to spend the night in Libbie before being transferred to Avera St. Luke’s Hospital in Aberdeen the next morning.

  “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 a
nd 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.”

  You had your chance.

  He turned in my grasp and tried to gouge my eyes, scratching my cheek instead. For an old man, he certainly was feisty. I moved my head away and yanked down hard on his shirt, pulling him off balance. He lurched forward and put his hand out, using the wall outside the conference room to remain upright. He turned again. The shirt tore in my hand as he edged away. Miller saw the advantage in this. He pulled on one end of the shirt as I pulled on the other until the shirt separated into two pieces. He swung his arm up and down until the sleeve slid off, and I fell backward against the wall.

  Miller ran out the door of the government building, which was where I was taking him anyway. His upper torso was pale and fleshy; his muscles were flaccid. His fat legs generated no speed. It was easy to run him down. He screamed and twisted, his fists flailing at me and hitting only air. I took hold of the remains of his shirt and deliberately yanked it off.

  The obscenities were spilling fast and furiously from Miller’s mouth, along with questions—what, why? A crowd was gathering, and it was asking the same things.

  I curled my fingers around the back of his belt and propelled him into the street, steering him in the general direction of the bank. He attempted to run again, and I had to hang on to keep him from escaping. His weight was too much, though, and the belt slipped from my fingers. Miller fell forward, splashing against the asphalt, scraping his elbows. I reached for him.

  “C’mon, Miller,” I said. “You’re making it harder than it needs to be.”

  Miller rolled onto his back and lashed out at me with his feet. His heel caught me in the upper thigh. He tried to kick me again. I caught his foot. He pulled it back. His shoe came off in my hand, and I tossed it behind me, nearly hitting one of the citizens who had followed us out of the government building. Miller shrieked and tried to spike me with his other shoe. I caught it and yanked it off as well, taking his black sock with it.

  Miller rolled onto his knees and started crawling forward. I grabbed his belt again and helped him along. The crowd following us seemed to swell in size as we closed the distance to the bank. Some of the people were telling me to leave the old man alone. Others were laughing. Miller heard the laughter. The obscenities increased in volume and included everyone around him, even his supporters.

  I used his arm and belt to pull him upright. He spun his massive body around. An elbow jabbed my fractured ribs. Pain went through me like a jolt of electricity. I pressed my left elbow against my rib cage even as I brought my right hand up. I wanted to slap him down. If he had been twenty years younger, I would have. Instead, I shoved him. He moved several steps backward, lost his balance, and sat on the pavement.

  “Why are you doing this?” he said. “I never hurt you. I never hurt anyone.”

  Does he actually believe that? my inner voice said. Is he that much of a sociopath?

  I grabbed his wrist. He pulled it away and tried to kick me again. I seized his pants cuff. He kept kicking at me. I pinned his leg under my arm.

  “Boxers or briefs?” I said.

  I couldn’t bring myself to beat up an old man, but humiliate him the way he had humiliated me when his minions dragged me nearly naked from my bed—yeah, I could do that.

  I reached for his belt buckle. Miller clawed at my hands, scratching them with his fingernails, yet I managed to open the clasp. Horror colored his face.

  “What are you doing?” he said.

  I opened his pants and started to yank them down. He clutched the waistband. I slapped his hands away and tugged. Miller screamed. I kept tugging. He kicked at me. I grabbed both cuffs and wrenched the pants off of his hips, his thighs, and his knees, until he was dressed only in white cotton briefs. He shrieked like an animal in pain. The sight of his ashy body caused some in the crowd to howl with laughter. I got the distinct impression that Miller had made many enemies over the years and they were now having a wonderful time. I didn’t like them any more than I liked Miller.

  “The emperor’s got no clothes,” someone said.

  Humiliation burned in Miller’s eyes. He started to beg. He used the word “please” for the first time since I’d known him.

  I grabbed his wrist and forearm and pulled up. Miller resisted, but not very much. Up ahead I saw Harry step through the front door of the bank. He walked to the curb and stood watching us, his hands behind his back, looking like a football referee waiting for the TV time-out to expire so he could start the game.

  Miller was weeping silently, yet he hadn’t given up. He pulled his arm from my grasp and tried to run again. It took some effort to gather him in my arms; I nearly tackled him. Miller made a long wailing cry. He attempted to speak, but his words were unintelligible. I pushed Miller toward the bank. His resistance diminished until he saw Harry waiting for us. For the first time he realized what was happening. He said he had made a mistake. He said he was sorry. He offered me money. He offered more money. He said he would give me anything. I thought about Victoria Dunston and what she had said.

  The people who hurt McKenzie, they’re still out there and they’ll probably hurt other people, too, unless someone stops them. If McKenzie doesn’t stop them, who will?

  You’re making the world a better place, I told myself, as I gave Miller a hard shove. I pulled on Miller’s arm and heaved his massive body the remaining yards to where Harry stood in front of the bank. I forced him into a sitting position at Harry’s feet. I was pointing when I said, “Special Agent Wilson, this man drugged me, beat me, kidnapped me, transported me across state lines, and left me to die on the Great Plains. I would like to press charges.”

  “It’s about time,” Harry said.

  Miller sobbed.

  Michelle Miller slowly made her way to his writhing, nearly naked body. She looked down at her husband and shook her head.

  “I want you to remember something, Dewey,” Michelle said. “You’re the one who insisted on putting an immorality clause into our prenuptial agreement. At the time I thought you meant adultery, but I think this qualifies, too. You’ll be hearing from my divorce lawyers.”

  “Man, that’s cold,” Harry said.

  “Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” I said.

  JUST SO YOU KNOW

  There are some astonishingly good criminal lawyers in South Dakota.

  The couple that Miller hired made me look like a vengeance-crazed lunatic on the witness stand and portrayed Evan both as the most maniacal villain since Charles Manson and the greatest traitor since Judas Iscariot. After he rested his case, the federal prosecutor told me that he didn’t like our chances at all. Then the arrogant sonuvabitch decided to testify, insisting on telling the jury his side of the story even though Miller’s attorneys stipulated to the judge that they had strongly advised him against it. After sixty minutes, with his attorneys cautiously leading him, Miller had the four men and eight women practically weeping at the injustices he had suffered. After two and a half hours of the prosecutor’s systematic interrogation, they were ready to convict him of everything from Lincoln’s assassination to the disappearance of Amelia Earhart. He’s currently serving one hundred and fi
fty-six months at the Federal Correctional Institution in Littleton, Colorado, while the appeal process runs its course. I was a little disappointed at the court’s generosity; I thought he should have received a much longer term. Yet at Miller’s age thirteen years could easily amount to a life sentence. We’ll see.

  Pleading guilty and agreeing to testify against Miller didn’t help Evan much at all. He was sentenced to a hundred and twenty months in the Federal Prison Camp at Yankton, South Dakota. At least he’ll have someone from home to chat with—Jon Kampa.

  Kampa’s attorneys were nearly as effective as Miller’s had been. They managed to convince a Perkins County jury that Nicholas Hendel was a thief after all, that he had attempted to defraud the community and steal all of the jury’s hard-earned tax money, and would have succeeded if Kampa hadn’t heroically tried to stop him, killing Hendel more or less by accident. The jury reluctantly convicted Kampa of second-degree manslaughter, and the judge, his judicial reasoning influenced by the fact that Kampa had been an upstanding community leader and that this was his first criminal offense, sentenced him to four years. The Feds, on the other hand, hammered him. They convicted Kampa of a dozen counts of bank fraud and embezzlement and gave him a twenty-four-year jolt—and then insisted that he serve his federal sentence before he was released to the custody of the South Dakota Department of Corrections to begin his state time.

  Dawn and Perry Neske were never charged for their crimes and left Libbie immediately after testifying in the Kampa case.

  Jeff wasn’t so lucky. He was convicted of second-degree murder in the killing of Tracie Blake and first-degree manslaughter in the death of Mike Randisi. He is currently residing at the South Dakota State Penitentiary in Sioux Falls. He won’t be eligible for parole for about thirty-seven years.

  And yes, he’ll also have friends from home to visit with. Church and Paulie both pled guilty to two counts of “reckless burning or exploding”—I am not making this up—and threw themselves on the mercy of the court. Church in particular bemoaned the fact that he was now homeless and without personal transportation. Fortunately, the problem was soon rectified when he and Paulie both drew seven-year sentences.