The Taking of Libbie, SD

Also by David Housewright

FEATURING RUSHMORE MCKENZIE
Jelly’s Gold
Madman on a Drum
A Hard Ticket Home
Tin City
Pretty Girl Gone
Dead Boyfriends

FEATURING HOLLAND TAYLOR
Penance
Practice to Deceive
Dearly Departed

THE
TAKING
OF
LIBBIE, SD

David Housewright

MINOTAUR BOOKS
NEW YORK

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

THE TAKING OF LIBBIE, SD
. Copyright © 2010 by David Housewright. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.minotaurbooks.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Housewright, David, 1955–
     The taking of Libbie, SD / David Housewright.—Ist ed.
       p. cm.
     ISBN 978-0-312-55996-0
     1. McKenzie, Mac (Fictitious character)—Fiction.  2. Private investigators—Fiction.  3. Kidnapping—Fiction.  4. Ex-police officers—Fiction.  5. Swindlers and swindling—Fiction.  6. South Dakota—Fiction.  I. Title.
     PS3558.O8668T35 2010
     813′.54—dc22

2010008712

First Edition: June 2010

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Reneé Marie Valois
,
forever

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I want to acknowledge my debt to Roxanne Cardinal, Gary Dyshaw, Keith Kahla, Eric Odney, Alison J. Picard, and Reneé Valois.

CHAPTER ONE

They shattered my front door with a metal battering ram at exactly four forty-seven and twenty-three seconds a.m. That’s when my alarm system began whooping and a forced-entry message was dispatched to both my security company and the City of St. Anthony Police Department. The siren shook me awake, but I didn’t react to it the way I should have. Instead, I remained in bed during those first crucial seconds and wondered what was wrong with my alarm clock and why in hell I had set it in the first place. By the time I realized what the siren meant, they were already on the stairs. I swung myself out of bed and made for the door. They reached it first, two men dressed for combat, one tall, one short. The short one carried an M26 Taser gun—I recognized the black body and vibrant green nose in the soft gray light filtering through my open window. I drifted back into the bedroom, my hands raised to shoulder height. The tall one said, “Rushmore McKenzie?” I lunged for my bedside lamp. It was the only weapon within reach. The short intruder pointed the Taser and squeezed the trigger. One barbed electrode hit me high in the upper shoulder, and the other imbedded itself just above the waistband of my blue shorts. My body was immediately flooded with fifty thousand volts. The electrical charge told every muscle to move at once, which caused them all to contract against each other. My body locked up. I hit the floor like a bag of sand tossed from the back of a truck.

They waited until the Taser ran through its five-second cycle, and then it was gloved hands yanking the electrodes out of my naked skin, rolling me onto my back and grabbing my arms. I was still twitching, still moaning from pain as the taller man slipped a double-loop restraint over both my wrists and pulled hard on the locking mechanism, securing my hands in front of me. The disposable cuffs were made of high-tensile-strength nylon that was just as effective as stainless steel. The tall man grabbed one shoulder. After he holstered the Taser, the short man took the other, and together they dragged me from my bedroom and down the carpeted stairs. A moment later we were out the front door. My bare feet scraped against the hard wood porch planks; my heels bounced on the concrete steps leading from the porch. I felt the pain, and it jolted me out of my stupor. I began to struggle. I yelled for help. My captors didn’t seem to mind. They hustled me to a four-door sedan parked in front of my house. The trunk was already open; the trunk light had been removed.

“I got north,” a voice said. The smaller man released my shoulder and grabbed both of my legs. I tried to kick myself free and failed. They lifted and swung me toward the opening of the trunk. “One, two, three.” On three they let fly. My head skimmed the lid of the trunk, and my knee hit the rim as I tumbled inside.

“The battering ram,” the shorter man said.

“Leave it,” his partner answered.

He slammed the trunk lid shut, enclosing me in darkness. I heard car doors opening and closing, the engine starting; I felt the car lurch forward and pick up speed. I pressed my back against the trunk lid and pushed. It didn’t budge. I found myself breathing harder than the exertion demanded. I caught my breath when I heard the distant wail of police sirens. Even in my befuddled condition, I knew it was the cavalry responding to my security alert. The car slowed as the sirens grew louder. The cops seemed to be right on top of us. “I’m here, I’m here,” I shouted—but the sirens passed and the car began to gain speed. The sirens slowly faded to silence.

The inside of my mouth became dry, and it was difficult to swallow, although sweat seemed to flow from every pore. I felt light-headed. I began to tremble. My thoughts swung from utter helplessness to denial—it’s just a dream, go back to sleep. “No!” I heard the word, but I don’t know if it was spoken aloud or just inside my head. I lay on my back and kicked the trunk lid with my bare feet. I shouted obscenities. I screamed, “Let me out.”

Time passed, yet in my panic I couldn’t say how much. Finally—
Stop it
, my inner voice told me.
Just stop it
. I rested against the trunk floor; the vibration and noise of the moving car became a rumble in my stomach.
Think it through
.

I started with Why. Why was this happening to me? I couldn’t answer that question without knowing Who. Who were these men who so efficiently snatched me from my bed? Professionals, obviously. Yet who hired them? I had many enemies, acquired back in my days as a cop and more recently as a kind of knight-errant doing favors for friends. Plenty of them would be happy to see me dead. Except, if that was the case, why the Taser? Why not a twelve-gauge sawed-off? Maybe it was a kidnapping for ransom—I had enough money to make it worthwhile. However, I had no family, no friends with access to my funds. There was no one to pay a ransom. Which brought me to What. I had been kidnapped, manacled, and locked in the trunk of a speeding car with no one to help me, that’s what.

So, what are you going to do about it?

I tried to calm myself, slow my respiration, slow my pulse. It became easier when I realized that the kidnappers had made a mistake. They cuffed my hands in front of me instead of behind. That allowed me to work my fingers along the edge of the trunk lid, frantically searching for a release catch. There wasn’t any, but if I could find something to slip between the lid and the base … The compartment was large enough for me to roll over, and I began searching for a tire iron or jack. I found neither. Nor was there a spare.

I lay in the darkness. My thoughts were slanting toward despair.

There’s no way out, I told myself.

There is always a way
, my inner voice said.

“There’s no way out,” I said aloud.

Quitters never win and winners never quit
.

“This isn’t a goddamn hockey game.”

Think it through
.

“Goddamn, sonuvabitch … Hey.”

Taillights. A car has taillights. How do you gain access to the taillights should a bulb burn out? Through the trunk.

I reached in darkness for the wall of the trunk and eagerly followed it to the corner. I continued to explore with my fingers until I located a small plastic panel. I felt a recessed tab. I dug my fingers into it and pried the panel off. Suddenly there was light. It came in the color red and filtered through the taillight lens. It allowed me to see a metal bracket and the hard plastic assembly that it held in place. Wires led to the back of the assembly and gave juice to the lightbulbs. I grabbed hold of the wires, considered yanking them out, and then thought better of it. If I damaged the taillights, the driver would know the first time he used his turn signal. Instead, I took a firm grip on the back of the light assembly and twisted counterclockwise. It was hard work at that angle, yet I finally managed to give it a half turn, popped the assembly free, and dropped it inside the trunk. I was so pleased with what I had done, I maneuvered my body around in the cramped space so that I could get at the other taillight. This one was more difficult—I was forced to use my left hand—but I eventually removed the assembly. For practical purposes, the car no longer had taillights or signal lights. Maybe a county cop or highway patrolman would notice—the car was moving at a steady pace that seemed fast to me, so I guessed we were on a highway or freeway. The lack of lights might even cause an accident. I had no real desire to be in a trunk during a rear-end collision, yet at that moment I would have settled for anything.

Now what?

I decided it would be nice if I could bust off the taillight lens, ease my hand through the opening, and wave it about. Certainly that would attract the attention of other drivers—the morning rush hour should begin soon, I reminded myself. Except I couldn’t reach the lens; the metal bracket was in the way. I yanked hard; it was welded firmly to the frame of the car. If I had a tire iron I could punch the lens out through the hole in the bracket, only that took me back to where I started.

Wait …

I had no idea how long I had been in the trunk, but the sun had risen high enough that red-tinted sunshine allowed me to see the seams of the blue-brown floor mat that I was resting on. Of course, I told myself. The floor mat disguised a compartment beneath me. The spare tire, along with the jack and tire iron, was in the compartment. The problem was getting my cuffed hands under the compartment lid while my weight was resting on top of it. I maneuvered my backside as far into the corner of the trunk as possible and went up on my toes, even as I pressed my back against the lid. That gave me room to work with; however, with my weight on it, I couldn’t lift the edge of the lid more than an inch or two. Still, I managed to slip my fingers beneath it. The lid was made of thin wood fiber covered by the carpet. I pulled upward. I was determined that if I couldn’t lift the mat, I’d break it. Only it was stubborn. My first attempt failed. So did my second. On my third attempt I pulled as mightily on it as I could, ignoring the pain shooting through my fingertips.
Your life depends on this
, my inner voice warned me. “Break, you bastard,” I said aloud. Every muscle in my body strained against the lid. Sweat poured off my forehead into my eyes. Then the wood fiber fractured. Then it broke. It sounded like the crack of gunfire inside the trunk, and my head and shoulders made an angry thud on the lid as I flew backward, yet my kidnappers either didn’t hear or chose to disregard the noise.