Madman on a Drum (10 page)

I glanced at Joey. He didn't seem to understand what was happening until I moved toward him, gripping the stick like a batter walking to the plate. He drifted backward until his spine was hard against the bar. His arms were spread wide in a pose of surrender, and his eyes were locked on mine as if I were a bad traffic accident and he couldn't make himself look away. I halted, rested the pool cue on my shoulder, and smiled. Joey just stared, his mouth open, like a man whose brain synapses were too far apart. I walked slowly past him to the door. I opened the bolt at the bottom, then the top, and moved back into the bar. None of the men spoke a word to me, so I didn't speak to them. I carefully stepped over Marky's body. He was moaning softly now; blood dribbled from his nose and from both corners of his mouth. I still had three balls on the pool table, and I sank them one at a time without a miss. Afterward, I returned the pool stick to the rack.

“I'm ready to leave. How 'bout you?” I said.

Karen nodded and slipped off her stool. “Gentlemen,” she said and walked briskly to the door. I followed. Nobody would meet my eyes; no one spoke until I moved past Joey. He said, “Asshole,” so I stomped on his kneecap with the outer edge of my shoe. I don't know if I smashed it, but Joey went down screaming just the same. I caught his hair as he fell and held him up while I punched his face until my knuckles became sore.

 

I was breathing hard when I left the bar; sweat had pooled under my arms and at the small of my back.

“Are you happy now?” Karen asked. I had unlocked the Audi with my key-chain remote, and we were talking to each other over the roof of the car. “You've been wanting to hit somebody all night. Now you've had your chance. Does it make you feel better?”

“Am I missing something?” I said. “Did you not know what was going on back there? Did you not see Marky locking the door?”

“I saw.”

“What the hell do you think that was about?”

“I know what it was about.”

“They were going to rape you, Karen. They were going to hold you down on the bar and spread your legs and rape you. Every man in that place—”

“I know.”

“They were going to rape you and abuse you and degrade you simply because you were there and they're all pissed off at the world and why should you be happy if they're not—and do you know what would have happened afterward? Nothing. I doubt that they would have celebrated. I doubt that they would have even given each other a high-five.”

“McKenzie, that wasn't going to happen.”

“That's because I was there. I can't believe you're giving me attitude over this. I was helping you.”

“I didn't need help. I had it under control.”

“What were you going to do, Karen, when they put their hands on you? Kill 'em with kindness?”

Karen's hand was in her bag. When it came out, she was holding a .380 Colt Mustang pocket gun. She slapped the semiautomatic on the roof of my Audi, and my first thought was
Hey, lady, that's a fifty-thousand-dollar car.
My second thought I spoke aloud. “You had a gun?” That's why she had draped her purse over her shoulder and why her hand was inside it. “What are you doing with a gun? You said no guns.”

“I said no guns for you. Lucky I did, from what I saw in there. You would have shot those men.”

“Hell, yes,” I said.

“So instead you beat on them. That should make you happy.”

“Karen—”

“Tell me, McKenzie. Do you think either of them will be any less of a jerk tomorrow because you beat on them?”

“Karen, I was concerned for your safety.”

“No. You were upset that you haven't been able to do anything for Victoria Dunston, and you took it out on them.”

“Get in the car.”

Once we were both inside the Audi and she had put her gun away, I said, “Karen, I have a lot to apologize for.” She turned in her seat and looked at me as if she suddenly thought I was interesting. “For the way I've treated you, the way I spoke to your friends.”

“I've already forgiven you for that,” Karen said.

“I know. I just wanted you to know that I was sorry. I have no reason to get down on you and your pals. You're true believers. You're honestly concerned about helping people.”

“We sure don't do it for the money,” she said.

“Only I am not going to apologize for what I did in Lehane's. I didn't know you had a gun, and even if I had, I still would have stepped in.”

“I wish you hadn't.”

“Tell me, Karen. If those men had laid hands on you, would you have used the gun?”

“I would have pulled it.”

“Yes, but if they weren't afraid, if they didn't back off, would you have squeezed the trigger?”

She didn't answer. I don't think she had an answer. She turned in her seat and gazed out of the passenger window looking for it. After a few moments, she said, “You think I'm naive, don't you?”

“A little bit.”

“I'm not. Truly, I'm not. I know these people. I know what they're capable of. I had one offender, he wanted to show his girl a good time, so he ordered a pizza and then shot the delivery boy in the back of the head for the money he had in his pockets. Another offender, a woman, she was angry that her boyfriend discarded her for someone else, so she burned down the boyfriend's apartment building, killed seven people. The boyfriend wasn't even home.”

Another offender kidnapped a twelve-year-old girl and terrorized and traumatized her and the people who loved her for a little bit of money, and maybe some payback for an imagined offense that occurred over two decades ago,
my inner voice added.
What madness is that?

“None of it makes sense to me,” Karen said. “I understand why they do the things they do. I understand their motives. Yet the motives so often pale in comparison with the enormity of their crimes.” She shook her head sadly. “I don't forgive them, McKenzie. Who am I to forgive them for the terrible things they do? Except this is the difference between you and me—I want to help them. I want to change them. I want to make sure they don't do terrible things again. I mean, what's the alternative if we don't help these people, if we don't try to change them? What else would you do with these people?”

“I don't know.”

“Neither do I.”

“Karen, what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this, anyway?”

“You mean sitting in an expensive car outside a sleazy bar after being nearly assaulted by a half-dozen degenerates?”

“Exactly.”

“After I earned my criminal justice degree, I worked at Lino Lakes as a jailer. I had taken a lot of psychology courses, and my plan was to work as a juvenile probation officer. I wanted to get a sense of what prison for kids was all about first, so I went to work for the juvenile detention center in Lino Lakes.” Karen stared out the window of the Audi some more. “Prison is a terrible, terrible place,” she said. “A bad place.”

It's supposed to be,
my inner voice said.

“It chews people up in a way that's… that's hard to explain unless you've seen it firsthand. I saw kids, I don't care what they did to get there, they were kids, but after a few months—what is it the philosophers say? ‘If you live where they live and are taught what they are taught, you'll believe what they believe.' For these kids, prison became their teacher. Most of what they knew about life they learned behind bars. I suspect that's what happened to your friend Scottie. Anyway, I decided I would work to keep people out of prison. I know it's not a popular goal. Yet”—she turned and looked hard at me—“when my head hits the pillow and I look back on the day, no matter how crummy the day is, I can always say ‘The world's a little bit better place because of what I did.' ”

“Where have I heard that before?” I asked.

I started the car, and we drove off. After a few blocks I said, “Did you learn anything? Back at Lehane's, did anyone say anything interesting?”

“The bartender didn't recognize any names, but he said he remembered serving two men who fit the descriptions of Scottie and the T-Man. He said they reminded him of one of those ads for a health club, the kind with a before and after photo, Scottie looking wimpy and the other looking muscular.”

“Did he remember anything else?”

“No.”

We managed to negotiate Spaghetti Junction, the confluence of Interstates 94 and 35E and Highway 52, without getting wrecked and were heading west when Karen's cell phone rang. I could hear only her end of the conversation.

“Yes… When…? What did he say…? You're kidding… No, tell him nothing. I'm on my way.”

Karen folded her cell and slipped it back into her bag.

“What?” I said.

“Take me back to the halfway house.”

“Why?”

“Scottie Thomforde just rolled in.”

Special Agent Damian Honsa worked hard to keep his reassuring smile in place. He paced the length of Shelby's dining room and back again, his hands clasped behind him, while we all watched from chairs around the table. “What do we know?” he said.

“We don't know squat,” Bobby said.

Bobby had been in favor of arresting Scottie immediately. Honsa had talked him out of it. “We have two teams on him,” Honsa said. “He's not going anywhere.” Again, he used the threat to Victoria's safety to keep Bobby in his place.

“We know that Scottie is lying,” I said.

“You don't know,” Karen insisted. “You weren't there. You didn't see his face. You were waiting in the car when I spoke to him. He could be telling the truth.”

“Why are you still here?” Bobby asked.

“He was contrite, he was apologetic,” Karen said. “I believe he was legitimately afraid that I would violate him. When I told him I'd give him one last chance, he nearly cried.”

Wouldn't you?
my inner voice asked even as I wondered how it was possible that a woman who did what Karen did for a living could retain such a rosy outlook. “You said that Scottie told you he went to his girl-friend's for a quick visit after work,” I reminded her. “He said he fell asleep. He said that when he woke up he first called the halfway house and then reported there as soon as he could.”

“That's right.”

“He said the girlfriend was Joley Waddell. Did you see Scottie when we were at her place?”

“Maybe he was sleeping in the bedroom. Maybe Joley didn't say anything for fear that he'd get into trouble. Or maybe she was embarrassed that we caught them together.”

“Maybe you've lost touch with reality,” Bobby said. “Ninety minutes' leeway before he has to report in—I never heard of anything so ridiculous. Parolees in halfway houses are supposed to be treated like they are incarcerated. No leeway at all.”

“Those are the rules—”

“Then why weren't you following the rules?”

“Because they're men, not animals,” Karen said. “Besides, you don't even know for sure that Scottie had anything to do with the kidnapping. You heard a voice on the phone. A voice that was disguised. You're just guessing.”

“Ms. Studder,” Honsa said. His voice, as always, was in neutral. “Did you contact Ms. Waddell to confirm Thomforde's story?”

“I didn't. Roger did.”

“He's the facility's administrator?”

“Roger Colfax, yes.”

“Did Ms. Waddell confirm Thomforde's story?”

“Yes.”

“She said that Thomforde had been with her?”

“Yes.”

“All evening?”

“I know it looks bad, but there could be a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

“Jeezus,” Bobby said.

“Did Mr. Colfax believe Ms. Waddell?” Honsa asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you contradict her story?”

“No. You said—you said before that you wanted to give Scottie the illusion of space. You wanted him to think he was still in control. So I told him I was satisfied for now, but that we'd discuss the matter again, later.”

Honsa smiled his reassuring smile at her. “That was excellent work, Ms. Studder. Thank you.” To the rest of us, he said, “If McKenzie is correct, and Mrs. Thomforde managed to contact her son, managed to tell Scottie that McKenzie and Ms. Studder were searching for him, Thomforde has to believe that McKenzie suspects him. But he must also believe that the police and the FBI aren't involved. If he thought we were, I think he would run. What other choice would he have? But he hasn't. Which means he thinks he's safe. So now we can watch, just as we had hoped.”

“It's possible,” Harry said, “that Mrs. Thomforde didn't contact her son. That this is all part of the plan. Thomforde kidnaps Victoria, makes sure she's secure for the evening, and then returns to the halfway house to avoid being violated, to avoid having anyone look for him.”

“Then why not return at seven when he was expected?” asked the tech agent. “He already had the girl. His partner could have made sure she was secured for the evening.”

“We don't know the partner's situation,” Honsa said. He was doing what he said he wouldn't—brainstorming in front of the victim's family. Yet I doubted either Bobby or Shelby would have had it any other way. “Perhaps he's on parole as well. Perhaps the conditions of his parole are more stringent and carefully monitored.”

If Karen felt a jab at that last remark, she didn't show it.

“They left Victoria alone, didn't they?” Shelby said. “They chained her up and locked her up and left her alone. She's all alone.”

She didn't have a reason to make that assumption, but who was going to argue with her? Not me.

“They won't do anything to endanger her,” said Honsa. “They need Victoria…” He nearly added “alive and unharmed,” yet edited himself. The words hung in the air just the same.

“She's alone,” Shelby said. She gripped Bobby's hand so tightly that his fingers turned white. He didn't so much as grimace.

“Did you check the prison records?” I asked.

“Yes,” Harry said. He slid a computer printout across the table to me. “The staff at Stillwater has no recollection of a prisoner called T-Man or Mr. T. This is a list of everyone with a first or last name starting with the letter
T
who's been released in the past twelve months. Lieutenant Dunston checked the names that he recognized.”

I studied the list. Bobby had checked eight names with a red pen. I could add nothing. It had been a while since I arrested anyone.

“One thing, though,” I said. “I think you should tap the phones at the halfway house, Mrs. Thomforde's house, and Joley Waddell's house.”

“Already taken care of,” said the tech agent.

“I think you should put Tommy Thomforde under surveillance as well,” I added.

Bobby leaned forward. “Why?” he said.

“He just went through a messy divorce. He needs money. Plus, he's been working out, and, well, his name does begin with a T.”

Bobby leaned back and Honsa and Harry glanced at each other as if they had all simultaneously flashed on the same idea that I had had— maybe it was Tommy's voice on the phone, not Scottie's. I didn't believe it. Yet it was possible.

Honsa passed a look to the tech agent. The tech agent grabbed a handheld and left the room.

“What happens now?” Bobby asked.

“The hardest part,” said Honsa. “We wait.”

“Oh, God,” moaned Shelby.

“I'm optimistic,” Honsa said.

No one agreed or disagreed with him out loud, yet we all understood the possibility: Scottie learned we had been looking for him, panicked, killed Victoria, and returned to the halfway house to avoid detection. It was a fear too great to speak aloud.

“We'll wait for the kidnappers to call,” Honsa said. He looked first at Shelby and then at Bobby as he spoke. “They will call. They will call tomorrow. As soon as it's humanly possible, we will arrange to exchange the money for your daughter. Once your daughter is safely home, we will make sure these men pay for their crimes.”

“I don't care if they pay or not,” Shelby said. “As long, as long…”

“I understand,” Honsa said.

“Do you have children, Agent Honsa?”

“Yes, ma'am. That's one of the reasons I do this job.”

I don't know if she found comfort in that or not. She slowly rose from the table and, without speaking, left the room. After a few moments, Bobby followed her.

 

Karen and I left Shelby's Place at the same time.

“I pray that the girl comes home safely,” she said. “I pray that no one gets hurt.”

“Me, too.”

My car was parked on the far side of Wilder, facing north. Her car was on the near side, facing south. As I passed her car, Karen said, “I am so wired, there's no way I could possibly fall asleep. I really don't want to be alone, anyway. McKenzie, will you have a drink with me? Or…” The “or” is what made me stop in the middle of the street. “The way I feel right now, I could be talked into anything.”

“Anything?” I said.

“The way I feel—if you feel the same way…”

I thought about it. I gave it all of five seconds before I said, “I have to make a phone call.”

“Nina?”

“Yes.”

“I'll wait.”

“No.”

Karen nodded as if a great truth had been revealed to her. “Before, you said that Nina would do until the real thing came along. She is the real thing, isn't she?”

“As real as it gets.”

“Why didn't you say so? Were you embarrassed?”

Good question. Nina and I had discussed the M-word on several occasions, only she had been there, done that, and had nothing to show for it except some extra bad memories and a lovely daughter, so marriage wasn't on the agenda. Still, in essence we had pretty much vowed to forsake all others. Why I had a difficult time admitting that aloud was as much a mystery to me as it was to everyone else.

“I'm told I don't express my feelings well,” I said.

“You should work on it.”

“I've been told that, too.”

Karen took several tentative steps toward me, paused. Her hand dipped inside her bag. For a moment, I had the irrational fear that she was reaching for her gun. Her hand came out with her wallet instead. “I'd really like to know what happens with that little girl,” she said. She took a card from her wallet. “Will you call me? Will you tell me what happens?” I took the card and put it in my pocket. “Or I could call you.”

There was that “or” again.

“I'll call you,” I said.

 

I was on I-94, heading west toward the Highway 280 exit, driving with one hand while holding my cell phone to my ear with the other. Nina Truhler was asking questions and I was trying to answer as best I could. “Ohmigod,” she kept saying. “Oh. My. God!” As if saying it often and loud enough would convince him to intervene on Victoria's behalf. Personally, I thought she was taking the Lord's name in vain. God never intervenes. He leaves that to us mere mortals.

I had hoped that Nina would invite herself over to my house. Like Karen Studder, I felt the need for some TLC. Instead, Nina announced that she was going home early to check on her own daughter, Erica. I didn't blame her a bit and told her so.

It wasn't until we finished our conversation that my hands began to shake. To avoid a wreck, I took the Larpenteur Avenue exit off 280 and pulled into the rutted lot of the abandoned service station at the top of the ramp. I had Stacey Kent in the CD player; she was wrapping her cool, hip, girlish voice around some jazz standards. It took a half-dozen songs before I stopped trembling and another half dozen before I felt up to driving home. I might have broken down altogether except what good would that do?