Madman on a Drum (14 page)

“I want her back alive and unharmed.”

“Then do what I say.”

“How do I know that after I pay the ransom you won't kill her?”

“You'll just have to trust me.”

“Why should I?”

“You got a choice?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Let me talk to McKenzie.”

“No. Not until you agree to my terms.”

“Put McKenzie on the phone.”

“We'll give you the money at the same time as you give us Victoria. One million dollars. It's sitting here waiting for you. You can have it right now. Right this minute. One million dollars. Just tell us where you're holding Victoria and I'll bring it to you.”

“McKenzie will bring it to me. I don't trust you, Bobby. Not for a second.”

“Then McKenzie will bring it to you. If you give him Victoria, he'll give you the money. One million dollars.”

“I know how much it is.” The kidnapper paused again, then said, “I'll call back.”

After he hung up, Bobby sought Honsa's face. “What do you think?” he said.

“He and his partner are discussing it.”

“If they are,” the tech agent said, “they're doing it on Interstate 94 heading east, toward Woodbury.”

“I'll bet you a nickel they're holding Victoria somewhere near the Badlands,” I said. “Maybe Dayton's Bluff. Maybe the East Side.”

Honsa nodded.

“Will they agree to our terms?” Bobby said.

“Question is, what are we going to do if they don't?” Honsa said.

It wasn't for me to say, but I said it anyway. “Pay the money.”

Bobby nodded. “Any chance is better than no chance.”

“No.” Shelby was speaking from the step on the staircase where she had sat two days before, again holding the posts of the banister and peering through them. “We talked about this before, Bobby. We are not going to reward these people for hurting our child.”

“Shelby,” Bobby said. He moved to the foot of the staircase and looked up at her. She slowly shook her head. Her expression was something I had never seen before. Ever. It was determined yet frightened, perfectly calm yet also crazed. It was the expression of a woman who had never bet on anything in her life, who had suddenly, inexplicably wagered everything in her life on the turn of a single card.

“Shelby.” Bobby repeated the name like a prayer.

In that moment I recognized just how fragile they had become since Victoria had been taken. The wrong word spoken at the wrong time could have shattered both their lives. Yet the wrong word was not spoken; no words were exchanged. For at that moment, when all bad things were possible, the phone rang. Bobby answered it. The voice of the kidnapper said, “All right, we'll do it the hard way. See if you like that better. Put McKenzie on the phone.”

He handed me the receiver and I said, “This is McKenzie.”

“I want you delivering the ransom,” the voice said. “That Bobby, he's liable to do anything. But you—you ain't gonna fuck around with the life of someone else's kid, are you, McKenzie? You ain't gonna try nothin' heroic, are you?”

“Not me.”

“Fuckin' right, not you. You got a cell phone, McKenzie?”

“Yes.”

“Give me the number.” I did. “Your phone better be charged, cuz if I lose you, McKenzie, I ain't gonna be responsible for what happens next.”

“It's charged.”

“You do what I say, McKenzie. You go where I say. If I see anyone following you, if I see a helicopter in the sky—I had better not see no fuckin' helicopters.”

“I'm not an air traffic controller. I can't control what's in the air.”

“Just so you know. Anything goes wrong, bad things are gonna happen.”

“I understand.”

“I want you to get into your car and start drivin', okay? Take the money and go for a ride.”

“Where?”

“Just drive. I'll call later when I'm ready and tell you where I want you to go. Remember, I'll be watching you.”

After he hung up, Honsa patted my shoulder. He didn't say anything, just patted.

Harry was standing near the front door. He was holding two of the aluminum cases. I picked up the third and moved to join him.

“McKenzie,” Bobby said. He took hold of my arm and led me toward the door. “I haven't even asked if you wanted to do this.”

“Are you asking now? Cuz I don't, you know. I really don't.”

“It should be me.”

“Yes, it should.”

“You're the only one I trust to do this. Anyone else…”

“Don't worry about it, Bobby. I'll bring Victoria home.”

“I know you will.”

I glanced up at Shelby. She was standing on the staircase and looking down at me. “See you in a little bit,” I said.

She opened her mouth, but words did not come out. Instead, she nodded at me. I nodded back.

Harry helped carry the cases to my car and load them into the trunk. “Are you ready?” he said.

“Ready as I'll ever be.”

“We'll be with you every step of the way.”

“Harry, if it all goes bad…”

“It won't.”

“If it does, make sure I get the blame. Don't let Bobby and Shelby… Don't let them blame themselves. Don't let them blame each other.”

“Nothing will go wrong.”

“I hope you're right,” I said. “As I live and die, I hope you're right.”

I took Marshall Avenue west toward Minneapolis, turned off at Mississippi River Boulevard on the St. Paul side of the river, and drove south. With no particular place to go, I reverted back to the time just after I first earned my license and drove simply for the sake of driving. The boulevard was a popular track in those days, especially when we managed to lure girls into the car. Somehow we got it into our heads that following the meandering Mississippi was a romantic drive. Toward the end of the road we'd hit a series of sharp curves. My friends and I used to call them the SOBs—the Slide Over Babies. The idea was that if you took the curves fast enough, the girl would be compelled to slide across the seat and end up next to you, which we always assumed was where she wanted to be anyway. I can't honestly remember a single instance when this maneuver was successful, but I had friends who swore that it had worked for them. At least that's how I explained it to the FBI agents who I assumed were hanging on my every word. I could see Bobby in my mind's eye turning to Shelby and saying, “I would never do anything so crass,” and Shelby giving him her famous I-can't-believe-I-married-this-guy smile and telling him, “No, of course not.”

I was coming out of the SOBs when my cell rang. I picked it off the seat next to me. The digital display said the call was coming from someone called Gazelle. I could only assume that Gazelle was a woman and Scottie had stolen her phone, but what did I know—Gazelle could have been a bartender at the Gay Nineties.

“Where are you?” his mechanically altered voice said.

“Mississippi Boulevard, near the Ford Bridge.”

“You got a ways to go, then. You know where Parade Stadium is?”

“Parade Stadium,” I said for the benefit of all those listening. “Yeah, I know where it is.”

“Park in the lot.”

After he hung up I said, “Gentlemen, we're going to Minneapolis.” I spoke loudly, hoping both the body wire and the microphone on my altered navigational system picked it up. I remembered that Honsa cautioned me not to look for his agents.
They'll be around,
he said. It didn't fill me with confidence. After a few anxious moments I added, “If you can hear me, someone beep a horn.” No one did. “God, I hope this works,” I said to no one in par tic u lar.

 

Parade Stadium was little more than a few bleachers wrapped around a baseball diamond. It had been considered state-of-the-art when it was built in the 1950s. Not so much now. Still, from the parking lot I had a spectacular skyline view of downtown Minneapolis and was within strolling distance of both the Walker Art Center and the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden. There were three cars in the lot—two near the entrance and a pale blue Toyota Corolla hatchback near the center. I parked between them, turned off my Audi, and waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

I kept twisting in my seat, looking for someone, anyone. There were no pedestrians, not even a neighbor walking a dog, and the only vehicles I spied were zooming along I-394 just north of the stadium. At first I kept a running commentary for the agents I dearly hoped were listening on the other end of the wire. As the minutes ticked by and I became more apprehensive, I stopped talking altogether. I knew Scottie was out there somewhere watching, and I slowly became convinced that he had spotted the tails.

At least twenty minutes had passed by my watch before my cell phone rang. The sound of it startled me. I spoke into it too quickly.

“Yeah,” I said.

“What's the matter, McKenzie? Nervous?”

“I thought it was Cities 97 and I had just won tickets to see Prince.”

“Talkin' like that, what, do you think this is a game?” Scottie said. It occurred to me then that he was as nervous as I was.

“No.”

“You do what I tell you to do and keep your mouth shut.”

Yeah, why don't you?
my inner voice agreed.

“Yes,” I said.

“See the Toyota?” Scottie asked.

“I see it.”

“Park behind it.”

I set the cell on the seat without shutting it down, started the Audi, and drove to the rear of the Corolla. I retrieved the cell and said, “Now what?” My head swiveled from the elegant homes on Kenwood Parkway to the Walker to the Sculpture Garden to I-394. I saw no one.

“Get out of your car.”

I shut off the Audi, opened the door, and slid out. “Now what?” I repeated.

“Take the money out of your car and put it in the backseat of the Toyota. The door is unlocked. Do not get back into your car. I'm watching you, McKenzie.”

I did what I was told. The kidnapper must have been close, because he saw me handling the aluminum cases. “Why three cases, McKenzie?” he said.

“It wouldn't fit into just one,” I said. “The money weighs seventy-seven pounds.”

The way he inhaled made me think that he was as surprised by that as I had been. “Okay,” he said. “Get in the Toyota. Stay away from your car.”

I used the remote control on my key chain to lock the doors to my Audi and dropped the keys into the pocket of my sports jacket. I slid behind the wheel of the Toyota. “Now what?” I said again.

“The keys are under the floor mat.”

I found them there.

“Start driving,” Scottie said.

“Where?” I asked.

“I don't care. Just drive. And don't forget—I can see you.”

He hung up. I started the car; the engine roared to life immediately. The Toyota might have been thirty years old, yet it was well preserved. I put it in gear and drove out of the parking lot. I spoke into my chest.

“I'm driving a 1977 Toyota Corolla.” I recited the license plate number. I explained what had happened, emphasizing that when I left the Audi, I lost the car's microphone and its GPS system, just as Harry had predicted. “I have no idea what Scottie is planning next. He might be running me around the Twin Cities to make sure I'm not being followed. He might be off to check on another location, take up a position where he can watch, and when he's ready send me there. What do I know?”

I maneuvered the Toyota onto Hennepin Avenue and headed toward Uptown. Along the way I told the agents that the car had not been hot-wired; if the Toyota was stolen, it had been stolen with the keys in the ignition. “You should check to see if there have been any recent car-jackings,” I said. I knew that the FBI and certainly Bobby Dunston didn't need my advice. It made me feel better to give it just the same.

It was twenty minutes later and I was circling Lake Calhoun for the third time, wondering once again if something had gone terribly wrong, when the cell rang.

 

The Franklin Avenue Bridge connecting Minneapolis and St. Paul was officially named the Cappelen Memorial Bridge after the man who designed it, only no one ever called it that. It opened in 1923, and at one time it was one of the largest bridges to span the Mississippi River, but its four lanes didn't carry as much traffic as they once did; the freeway bridge farther up the river now took most of it. Still, there were plenty of irate drivers stacked up behind me when I stopped the Toyota in the center of the bridge, put it in park, and activated the flashing emergency lights.

“I did what you told me,” I said into the cell phone. “Now what?”

“Get out.”

I did, but first I shut off the engine and removed the key just in case Scottie was planning a fast one—get me out of the way so he or his partner could boost the Toyota with the money in the back seat. He could have been concealed in one of the cars behind me. Why not?

A man was standing on the sidewalk and staring at me with angry eyes when I exited the car. He was wearing long brown hair in a ponytail and carrying a heavy backpack, yet he looked at least a decade too old for college. I wondered if he was a veteran who had paid for his University of Minnesota tuition by serving in the military; there was plenty of off-campus housing nearby. Or maybe he was a professional student who was studying everything at nearby Augsburg College except how to live in the real world. If he was a professor, I feared for the future of higher education.

“You can't park here,” he said. I rounded the car and stepped on the sidewalk. “Did you hear me? I said you can't park here.”

“Who is it?” Scottie asked. The cell was pressed hard against my ear.

“Some guy, don't worry about it.”

“Get rid of him.”

“Just tell me what you want me to do.”

“Hey,” said the student. “I'm talking to you.”

“Walk to the railing,” Scottie said.

I moved forward. The student attempted to block my path. I brushed past him.

“Excuse me,” I said.

“What?” Scottie said.

“Don't push me,” the student said. He grabbed my arm. I nearly dropped the cell pulling it free.

“Get out of my way,” I told him.

“You can't park here. Lookit.” He pointed at the avenue with his thumb. “Traffic is backing up.”

He was right. The few cars behind the Toyota had become a long line; they were shifting into the second lane whenever an opening appeared.

“This is an emergency,” I said.

I reached the bridge railing and looked down at the Mississippi River below. The bridge was only fifty-five feet above the water, but it might as well have been as high as Mount McKinley. My acrophobia kicked in, and I took two anxious steps backward. I've been afraid of heights since I was a kid. It doesn't bother me much when I'm in a tall building looking out a window, or even when I'm on a plane. Yet in the open on, say, I don't know, a bridge, it causes my heart to pound and my breath to grow short and gives me a feeling in my stomach that says I'm about to get hit by a really big meteor. My friends theorize my fear was triggered by some repressed childhood experience. They're mistaken. The reason I'm afraid of falling from a great height is that I can't fly.

“What emergency?” the student wanted to know.

“What's going on?” Scottie said.

“I don't see any emergency,” said the student.

“What do you want me to do?” I said into the phone.

“Get your car off the bridge,” said the student.

“Throw your cell phone into the river,” said Scottie.

“What?” I asked.

“You heard me,” the student said.

“You heard me,” Scottie said.

“I can't do that,” I said.

“Do you think you're something special?” the student asked.

“Throw it in,” Scottie said.

“How are we going to stay in touch?” I asked.

“I have it covered. Now throw the damn phone into the river. Let me see you do it.”

I glanced up and down the bridge. On the west side there were a number of fashionable homes. On the east I could see an auto repair shop and a store where you could get your furniture reupholstered. I didn't see anyone speaking on a phone; I didn't see anyone waving from a parked car.

“I'm waiting,” Scottie said.

I held the cell phone above my head for a few beats, then flung it as far as I could. It seemed to hover in the air for a moment, then arch down toward the river. I didn't watch it fall.

“What are you doing?” the student said. “You can't pollute the river with your junk.”

“Would you please shut the hell up?” I said. I pivoted away from the railing and moved toward the car. I took two steps before the student grabbed my arm again, taking hold of my elbow.

“I'm reporting you,” he said.

I pulled my elbow free and jabbed him in the face with it, catching him just below his nose. His head snapped back, and his hand quickly covered his mouth; blood trickled through his fingers. At the same time, I stepped toward him, swung my left leg around, hooking my foot behind his right knee, and swept upward. That, plus the weight of his backpack, was enough to put him down. The student hit the sidewalk with a dull thud, coming to rest on top of the backpack. He flailed his arms like a turtle on its back. His upper lip had been torn, and blood flowed down his chin. Some of it got into his mouth when he shouted at me.

“What's wrong with you?”

“I'm sorry.” I was shouting, too, and pointing my finger. “I'm sorry I hit you, but I haven't got time to be a nice guy.” I retreated to the Toyota. The drivers queued up behind me seemed relieved when I put it into gear and drove off. I was off the bridge and going east on Franklin when I heard a cell phone ring. It took a few confusing moments before I found it in the glove compartment.

“Yes,” I said.

“I saw you hit the kid,” the voice said. “You must really be pissed off.”

“What now?”

“Getting a little frustrated, McKenzie?”

“What now?”

“Just drive. I'll tell you where in a minute.”

Scottie rang off. I dropped the phone on the seat next to me and spoke into my chest.

“I don't know where I'm going,” I said. “He just wants me to drive again. He's probably setting up the next rendezvous.” I liked that word so much I repeated it. “Rendezvous.” What else would you call it?

“You probably heard what happened on the bridge. I'm sorry about that. I hope I didn't hurt that guy too much. Some people just don't know when to mind their own business. I'm concerned, though. Not about the guy on the bridge, the kidnappers. I think they have a plan. What I mean by plan, I think Scottie's trying to strip me of all my wires. First we lose the GPS and microphone in my car. Now my cell phone. It makes me nervous about what we have left.”

Franklin Avenue continued east to the freeway. I hung a left and then a right and followed University Avenue into St. Paul. I began to feel the way I had on the bridge looking down—the escalating heartbeat, the shortness of breath, the anxiety.

“Driving around like this is starting to get on my nerves,” I said aloud. “Do I dare risk stopping? I don't have a tail, I'm sure of that. Maybe I should stop. There's Porky's Drive-In up a ways on University. I could pull in, sit in the car, have a Cherry Coke, wait for Scottie to call. Do you think I could risk that?”