Madman on a Drum (25 page)

“If he does contact you, will you tell me?”

“He won't.”

“He might.”

Mrs. Teachwell turned in her chair to face me. Tears had welled up in her eyes again, and she brushed them away with her knuckle. “Why would he?” she asked.

“He's in serious trouble,” I said. “When I'm in trouble, I seek out the people who love me best.”

She thought about it for a moment, then said, “He won't come here.”

“Will you tell me if he does?”

“No.”

“Your husband is a fool, Mrs. Teachwell.”

“Ex-husband,” she said.

 

I liked Mrs. Teachwell. I liked that she stood by her man even though he really wasn't her man anymore. Others might censure her as some kind of Tammy Wynette throwback, a relic from an era that existed before women were given the right to vote. Not me. I think we all pray for such loyalty from the people we love. I wondered briefly if Nina Truhler possessed that kind of loyalty.
Sure she does,
my inner voice told me.
She's proven it many times.

I dumped my Kevlar vest and guns in the back of the Jeep Cherokee and drove away from Mrs. Teachwell's house. I stopped when the driveway intersected with the main drag and made a phone call. The new cell didn't have Harry's direct number on speed dial, and I was forced to go through the switchboard. “Special Agent Brian Wilson,” Harry said.

“It's McKenzie.”

“McKenzie,” Harry said. “I've been wondering where you've been off to.”

“Orono,” I said.

“What's in Orono?”

“The residence of Mrs. Thomas Teachwell.”

“Teachwell? The embezzler?”

“It's him, Harry. He's the T-Man. He was Scottie's partner. He was the one who put a hit out on me.”

“Are you sure?”

I told him I was. I told him why.

“I'll be damned,” Harry said.

I sniffed at the remark. It was a good opening for a joke, only I didn't have one in me. I was too tired; my whole body pulsed with pain. Maybe next time. I told Harry to put a team on Mrs. Teachwell's house, to tap her phone. He didn't need the advice.

“Watch,” he said. “I bet I scoop him up in less than twenty-four hours.”

I didn't take the wager, but I did ask Harry to call me when he had Teachwell in custody.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“Hide out until you find him.”

“That's it? You're not going to try to hunt him down yourself, get a little payback for Bobby Dunston?”

I flashed on the faces of two dead men in East Bethel—maybe three—and of the felon, left battered and broken in the ravine near my home. An hour ago I would have happily added Teachwell to the pile. Now, after hearing what Mrs. Teachwell had to say, I wasn't so sure. The necessity of revenge had transformed Teachwell. It turned him from a fairly decent guy who made a mistake into a raging monster, a man who thought nothing of injuring innocent people, of hurting children, to gain the vengeance he felt was his due. I could argue that I was more than justified for going after him. I just didn't want to become him.

“I've done my bit for God and country,” I said. “It's time you professionals stepped in.”

“Goodness gracious, but that's a mature attitude to take. Keep it up, McKenzie, and you'll become a full-grown adult in no time at all.”

“That's always been my goal, Harry. It's what I long for late at night.”

The sun was only a rumor of light on the horizon, yet traffic was still heavy by the time I left Orono and got back onto I-394. I didn't want to deal with it. I was angry with Teachwell, I was upset that I had brought grief to the Dunston family, my back ached, my ankle throbbed, plus I had three loaded guns in my vehicle—and while I had never succumbed to road rage in the past, I figured all the components were there. Instead of taking the risk, I stopped at Shelley's Woodroast to have a drink and immediately felt guilty about it. Lately, whenever I caught myself having a good time in an establishment other than Rickie's, I felt like I was cheating. Certainly I would have preferred driving to Rickie's and letting Nina buy me a drink, and dinner, too, for that matter. Only I knew there could be assassins lurking in her parking lot, waiting for me to show myself. That wasn't going to change until Teachwell was in custody and I had another chat with DuWayne.

I decided to call Nina and ask her to join me, if not at Shelley's, then at any other restaurant she fancied. Perhaps I could convince her to return to the St. Paul Hotel with me. It had a great restaurant, not to mention room service—nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Unfortunately, I didn't remember the actual phone number for Rickie's—on my old cell it was number 5. I needed directory assistance to place the call. I asked for Nina. Jenness Crawford, her assistant manager, said that Nina had left to meet with her insurance agent and then she was going to make a quick stop at home.

“I expected her back by now,” Jenness said.

I thanked her and hung up. Only then did I realize that I hadn't memorized Nina's home or cell numbers, either. For the past two years I had merely dialed 3 or 4. Directory assistance wasn't going to help; both numbers were unlisted. I was about to call Jenness again when my cell rang. The display screen identified the caller.

“Hey, Nina, I was just about to give you a shout,” I said.

“McKenzie, this is Nina.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Nina Truhler. You remember.”

“Of course I remember. Your voice sounds funny. What's wrong?”

“Can you meet me at my house?”

“Sure.”

“Can you meet me right now?”

“Nina…?”

“My house is in Mahtomedi. Do you have the address?”

“I'm coming, Nina.”

 

I was speeding east on I-394, weaving through traffic with one hand on the wheel. My other hand was pressing my cell phone against my ear.

“Nina's in trouble,” I told Schroeder. “Where the hell are your people?”

“Hang on.”

A few moments later, Schroeder was back on the line.

“I can't reach my operative,” he said. “Where are you?”

I told him.

“Pick me up.”

 

From the redwood deck on the back of Nina's house, you could easily see the eastern shore of White Bear Lake, about twenty minutes northeast of St. Paul. During the day it's busy with every surface craft you can imagine, and at night lights from the homes along the shoreline and the few boats still prowling the water twinkle like stars. Except in Nina's house. Not a single light burned anywhere inside. Which was wrong. Nina always kept a light on.

I approached the house from behind, cutting through her neighbor's yard, slipping from one shadow into another. In the distance, I heard music that grew louder before stopping altogether, and a woman's laugh, and somewhere a dog barked. The sounds came and went, people settling in for the evening; it was cool enough that most of their windows were closed. I knew Nina's weren't. She kept at least one open even in the winter. I stood beneath the window in a pool of black, my back against the wall of her house, and listened and heard nothing.

Nina had played it smart on the phone—of course I knew who she was, of course I knew her address. She was warning me. Teachwell was there, just as he had been in Joley Waddell's house; he had forced her to call, just as he had forced Joley. I could hear it in her voice. Maybe I wouldn't have if it hadn't been for my experience in Highland Park, but there you go. Somebody should tell Teachwell that it's not wise to call the same play twice in a row. I decided that that somebody ought to be me.

I quietly crawled up the stairs to the top of Nina's deck, keeping my head below the floor until the last possible moment. There were sliding doors that led to the kitchen. They were locked. I was always telling Nina and her daughter to keep them locked when they weren't actually on the deck.
Now they decide to listen to me.
Nina had offered me a key, offered it more than once, only it was to the front door and I had refused it on the grounds that I had no business being in her house when she wasn't there. I crawled back down the stairs.

Nina's house had been built on the side of a hill. The deck was level with the first-floor living room, dining room, and kitchen and the street beyond. The basement opened into the backyard. The basement door was tucked beneath the deck. It also was locked. But it was cheap; Nina had not replaced it as I had suggested and I was able to loid the lock with a credit card.

I whispered into a Bluetooth mini headset that was wrapped around my ear and paired with a cell phone that Greg Schroeder had taped to my chest.

“The house is dark. No sign of movement. I'm going in.”

“Roger that,” Schroeder said Schroeder wanted to be the one to enter the house while I waited in the Cherokee for his signal, especially after we found his operative in a car about a half block from Nina's house, dead, a bullet in his head. Nina was my responsibility, though. Besides, he was so agitated I couldn't trust him not to shoot up the place.

I slipped inside the house and gently closed the door behind me—I didn't want a gust of wind to slam it. I removed my shoes and waited for my eyes to grow accustomed to the dark. I tried to control my breathing, tried to remain calm, even as I removed the nine-millimeter Beretta from its holster and thumbed off the safety.

After a few moments, I tapped the microphone on the headset twice.

“Roger,” Schroeder said.

We had arranged signals beforehand. Once inside I wouldn't talk, only tap. Two taps meant I was on the move and Schroeder should stand by. Four taps meant I was in position and he should bring the car up. If I got into trouble I was to yell for help.

I padded across the basement to the stairs. I crept up the stairs to the closed door at the top and cautiously turned the knob. It gave without a sound, and I nudged it open, revealing Nina's kitchen. I lingered for a moment, listening with all my might, and heard nothing except the blood pumping through my veins and the thunder of drums that was my heartbeat.

I moved in a crouch past the door into the kitchen. I held the Beretta with both hands and swung it first to my right, then to my left. Appliances winked at me in the scant moonlight that streamed through the kitchen windows. To my left was a long corridor that led to the living room, as well as one of Nina's four bathrooms, the second-floor staircase, and the front door to her house. Straight ahead on the other side of the kitchen was an arched doorway leading to the dining room.

I skated forward, my stocking feet sliding on the floor tiles, the nine leading the way, until I reached the opening. I poked my head past the arch. A chair had been pulled away from the dining room table and was set facing the living room. A figure was sitting in the chair. I recognized Nina from the shape of her head and the tilt of her shoulders. A glint of light reflecting off a smooth, glossy surface told me that her arms and legs had been bound to the chair with duct tape.

I waited, afraid to move until I knew exactly where Teachwell was. Headlights from a passing car flickered through curtains and around drapes and briefly gave the room an eerie sense of movement. For a moment I discerned the silhouette of a man standing at the edge of the large bay window. I heard his voice.

“It's him,” he said. And then, “No, not yet,” as the headlights swept past.

I tapped the headset.

“Neighbor, four houses down,” Schroeder said. “Are you ready?”

I had a clear shot, but Nina's chair was too close to the line of fire, and I wouldn't take the chance in case I missed and Teachwell returned fire. I retreated back into the kitchen, trying hard to ignore the throbbing pain in my back and ankle, until I reached the corridor. The corridor was carpeted, and I was sure Teachwell would hear the rasping sound my socks might make on the material as I moved along.

Now or never,
my inner voice said.

I tapped the headset four times.

“Here we go,” Schroeder said.

I waited in the kitchen until headlights appeared through the tiny windows.

“Wait,” Teachwell said. “Yes. That's a Cherokee.”

I moved down the corridor, staying well clear of the walls to eliminate any chance of bumping and thumping, until I reached the arched entrance to the living room. I rounded the corner. The silhouette had shifted position slightly. It was now hunched in front of the window and peeking through the crack between the drapes.

Headlights illuminated Teachwell's face as Schroeder swung the Cherokee into Nina's driveway. It was blank and stark, yet his eyes flashed with anger and injury. Or maybe it was just the light. I braced myself against the base of the arch and sighted on the center of the shadow. My finger was slick with sweat inside the trigger guard.

“Don't. Move.”

He didn't.

“McKenzie,” he said. There was resignation in his voice; he reminded me of a poker player who knew he had a losing hand yet bet his cards anyway. “How did you know?”

“Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.”

“That's very profound.”

“Yeah, I got it off an episode of
Star Trek
.”

The room seemed to breathe; I could feel cool air moving in and out through half-open windows in the front and back of the house.

“What now?” Teachwell said.

“That's for you to decide.”

“Is it?”

“Drop your gun. Let me see your hands.”

“Fuck that,” Schroeder screamed into the headset—of course, he had heard every word. “Kill him. Shoot the fucker.”

Teachwell turned his head, but not his body, and tried to find me in the darkness. The gun that I knew he had was out of my sight. He tossed words in my general direction. “You think you're clever,” he said. “But I got you back. I got you back for what you did to me.”

“Why don't you act your age, Teachwell?”

“I got you back.”

“Shoot him,” Schroeder shouted.

“If you wanted to kill me so badly, why didn't you do it when I delivered the ransom?” I said.

Teachwell's shrug was nearly imperceptible in the darkness. “The little girl,” he said. “I didn't want to pop you in front of her. That would have been…” He shook his head. “I tried to be respectful to the little girl. She never did anything to me.”

“Thank you for that.”

“ 'Sokay.”

I heard a car door slam, and seconds later Schroeder was at the door.

“What about Scottie Thomforde?” I asked.

He shrugged again. “You made him. I knew he would lead you to me.”

“And Tommy Thomforde?”

“Him I shot for fun.”

“And dumped his body on my floor.”

“That was fun, too. I wish I could have seen your face when you found him.”

Schroeder tried the door, but it wouldn't give. “McKenzie, let me in. McKenzie.”

“What the hell happened to you, Teachwell?” I asked. “You were a decent guy who took a step out of line. You should have been able to get past it. How did you get from there to here?”

“Prison,” he said. “I'm not going back.”

“Fuck it,” Schroeder said. He left the door. I guessed he was going to enter the house the same way I had. Teachwell didn't have much time.

“Drop your gun,” I told him. “Put your hands in the air.”

“I'm not going back,” Teachwell said.

“Don't say that.”

“I can't go back.”

“Don't.”

“You know my wife. Tell her—”

“Please don't, Mr. Teachwell.”

“Tell her…”

He never finished the sentence. I guess he decided he didn't have anything to say to her, after all. Instead, he spun toward me.

I fired three times.

Teachwell's shadow seemed to rise up and then fell backward hard against the window.

I heard glass shattering.

And the tearing of fabric.

And nothing.

I waited—one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi—my gun at the ready, telling myself that the man who's healthy, wealthy, and wise never rises too early. Four Mississippi and I launched myself forward, hitting the light switch that I knew was on the wall near the front door. Floor lamps flooded the room with light. I forced myself to ignore Nina and concentrate on the body in front of me. Teachwell was slumped against the wall, his back to the room. The drape was torn at the top and hanging precariously, exposing half the bay window. The window was broken. Teachwell's arm was caught on the jagged edge of glass halfway up. It appeared almost as if he were trying to pull himself upright. His gun was still in his other hand, lodged between his body and the wall. Normally, I would have kicked it out of Teachwell's reach; that's what I had been trained to do. Instead, I left it there for the police to find. It would bolster my story later. Besides, Teachwell no longer had any use for it. I confirmed the fact with two fingers pressed against his carotid artery.

I heard Schroeder bounding up the basement steps. A moment later he was crouched against the wall, his MP7 submachine gun at the ready.

“Is he dead?” he said.

“He better be.”

“What the fuck were you doing talking to him like that?”