The Taking of Libbie, SD

by David Housewright

  “We didn’t ask.”

  There was about ten minutes of rough roads and me bouncing up and down, landing painfully on my hands and shoulders, before the ride smoothed out. I assumed we were on the freeway again heading God knew where at high speed. I felt the turns; they were wide and gradual.

  The kidnappers had warned me to behave myself after stuffing me inside the trunk, and I said I would. Believe me, I would’ve given the lie to it if I could have. This time, though, with my hands cuffed tightly behind my back, there was nothing to work with. I could only hope it was a short ride. No such luck. I had no way of knowing the time, but I had the sense that hours were passing. It wasn’t long before I felt the urge to relieve myself. I shouted my need to the kidnappers. Again, they either couldn’t hear or chose to ignore me. Finally, I gave in to nature’s call, soaking my shorts, my leg, and the floor mat. I promised myself I wouldn’t be embarrassed. I promised myself I wouldn’t become angry. I was both. I couldn’t help myself. And soon a third emotion—the worst of all—supplanted them. Helplessness. It covered me like a heavy, wet blanket. I had never felt so utterly defeated. Eventually the car slowed, went up a steep incline, took a few turns, and came to a stop. The familiar sounds of a gas pump in use told me we were in a service station at the top of a freeway exit ramp. Yet I couldn’t even muster enough resistance to kick the trunk lid or yell for help.

  Then one of my captors did a foolish thing. He rapped rhythmically on the trunk lid—shave and a haircut, two bits—and laughed. What the hell was that? Trash talk? He was trash-talking me? That sorry sonuvabitch. You don’t talk trash until the game is over, and this game was far from over. Who the hell did he think he was? Cretin–Derham Hall did the same crap when I was playing hockey for Central High School. We were down 6–1 at the beginning of the third period, and they started talking trash. So me and Bobby Dunston and the rest of the guys beat the hell out of them for fifteen minutes—we hit them so hard and so often their ancestors were probably still feeling it. We lost 7–6 in OT, but those elitist punks knew they were in a game. Now these smart-ass kidnappers were giving me the same business? I don’t think so.

  I know some people might think this reaction was silly given the circumstances, but trash talk was something I knew, something I understood. It rearmed me with anger; it filled me with indignation. If those bastards thought I had given up …

  Think it through, my inner voice told me.

  Typically bounty hunters are hired by bail bondsmen to rearrest felons who have skipped out on their bail and return them to the court system. It’s entirely legal for them to go into most states and bring out an escaping felon. However, these guys switched cars. There was no reason for them to do that unless they were afraid they were spotted leaving the scene and an alert was issued on them—which meant they knew that there wasn’t any paper out on me and that what they were doing was illegal. Also, bounty hunters usually are paid only a percentage of the bond for their work. These guys were getting expenses. That told me someone outside the court system had probably employed them. At the same time, I couldn’t pretend that it was all just a terrible mistake, that they grabbed me thinking I was someone else—they had called me by name. Twice. So I was left with the very real possibility that Lord and Master had been hired to kidnap and transport me to an undisclosed location so I could be killed at the pleasure of their employer. Possible, except the killer would have to suffer a pair of potential witnesses who could blackmail him, who could barter him in exchange for a plea bargain from the state should the need arise. No, there was something else in play. I knew that sooner or later I would be let out of the trunk. Sooner or later my hands would be freed.

  Yeah, all right, I told myself. All right. There was nothing I could do for now, so I did nothing, resolving to conserve my energy for the moment when I would have use for it. The time would come, and soon. Then I would get my revenge. Shave and a haircut, two bits, my ass.

  I fell asleep, for how long I couldn’t say. When I woke, my body was sheathed in sweat. It was insufferably hot inside the trunk, and I knew I was becoming dehydrated—I was starting to feel both light-headed and nauseous. I yelled for relief. My head throbbed from the exertion.

  Time passed. I rolled over in the cramped quarters, strained to stretch my legs, tensing my body in an isometric exercise. It took more effort than it was worth. There was a dull, throbbing ache in my shoulders, my elbows, my wrists and hands. I tried not to think. Not of Nina or Shelby or Bobby Dunston or my father and mother or of my life in general. There was no need. I had been in trouble before. Slowly roasting inside a locked trunk—that didn’t even make my Top Ten list. Or so I told myself.

  I continued to sleep sporadically during the long journey, and with each awakening I felt less confident. The darkness was becoming increasingly cruel, and I experienced a Twilight Zone moment, imagining that I was already dead and this was my hell, driving endlessly in the trunk of a Ford Taurus. Doo-doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doo-doo … It was a dangerous frame of mind, and to alleviate it, I sang softly to myself, singing Gershwin, Porter, Springsteen, Dylan, even Petula Clark until the lyrics became incomprehensible. I envisioned myself as a guest on a talk show—Regis and Kelly, Ellen DeGeneres, Larry King, Bill O’Reilly, The View, nothing that I ever actually watched—talking aloud until the conversation became as oppressive as the heat. The slowing of the car, the multiple turns, the rolling stops and starts, the final stop followed by the quieting of the engine and the opening and closing of car doors—none of it even registered until the trunk squeaked open and the compartment was immersed in light.

  “Out,” a voice said.

  I didn’t move, couldn’t move, except for my eyelids, which I sealed against the glaring light.

  “I said outta there.”

  A hand on my shoulder prodded me.

  “Hey, McKenzie. Ah, Christ. Give me a hand.”

  Two pair of hands seized me under my arms and dragged me from the trunk. Someone slapped my face.

  “C’mon, McKenzie.”

  “Don’t do that,” I said.

  I wanted to strike back now that I had the chance, throw some snap kicks at these bastards and hurt them like I had promised I would with every passing mile. Only my legs were both stiff and weak as they unfolded under me; they weren’t strong enough to support my weight. I felt like every muscle and joint in my body was rusty. The kidnappers had to hold tight to keep me from falling.

  “Look at this,” said the shorter kidnapper. “He pissed himself.”

  “Well, duh,” said his partner.

  I opened my eyes, closed them, opened them again and blinked against the sun. We were in an asphalt parking lot, white lines painted neatly on the pavement. It burned my bare feet, and I instinctively went up on my toes. There was a street, also asphalt, beyond the lot. Across the street was a bank. First Integrity State Bank of Libbie. A display flashed time and temperature. 2:33 PM. 97°F.

  The kidnappers spun me around and dragged me toward the glass doors of a blond-stone building. There was a name spelled out in silver letters attached to the stone. city of libbie police department. The sight of it cheered me. I think I might even have smiled. I used to be a cop. I liked cops. Cops didn’t murder people. Except on TV and in the movies. And in New York and L.A.

  Lord and Master muscled me through the doors. A wave of cold air immediately pummeled my body. The dull throb above my ears became a slicing pain that attacked my eyes. It had to be thirty degrees cooler inside than outside, but instead of making me feel better, the abrupt change in temperature increased my nausea. I gagged, nearly vomited. The kidnappers stared at me nervously as they brought my limp body to a waist-high counter. A uniformed officer stood behind it.

  “Is that him?” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “He don’t look too good.”

  “He’s fine.”

  “Put ’im in interrogation.”

  I was now able to put weight on my legs; probably
I could have walked without help. The kidnappers wouldn’t think of it. They half carried, half dragged me around the counter. They led me to a metal door, opened it, and pulled me inside as if they had been there many times before. The desk officer followed behind.

  The room might have been used for interrogations, but the smell of fried chicken convinced me that it was also used as a lunchroom. It was probably the conference room as well. In the center of the room was a metal table that was secured to the concrete floor. There were several folding chairs around the table, plus one metal chair that was also bolted to the floor and facing a one-way mirror. The tall kidnapper dumped me into the metal chair while the officer pulled the other chairs away, folded them, and leaned them against the wall out of my reach.

  Finished, he came over and gave the tall kidnapper a pair of handcuffs with a foot-long chain between them. “Here, use this,” he said. The kidnapper secured one cuff to a steel ring welded to the table. The other he wound around my right wrist. After that, he severed the nylon restrains with his cutter.

  I pulled my arms out from behind my back with a mixture of pain and relief. I stretched as best I could against the chain. The effort both exhilarated and tired me. I slumped forward and rested my forehead against the tabletop. The metal felt cool against my skin. The pain in my head became less pointed and seemed to spread to the entire back of my skull.

  “You sure that’s him?” the officer said. “He doesn’t look the same.”

  “He’s been locked in a trunk for six hundred miles,” the tall kidnapper said. “What do you expect him to look like?”

  “We should give him some water,” said the shorter kidnapper. “Do you have any water?”

  “Hey,” the officer said. He nudged my bare foot with his shoe. “Hey. What’s your name?”

  I answered, but apparently he didn’t hear me. He nudged me again. “What did you say?”

  “Rushmore McKenzie,” I said.

  “Told you it was him,” said the tall kidnapper.

  “You got any water?” the shorter kidnapper repeated. “We should give ’im some water.”

  “Yeah, I’ll get some,” the officer said.

  “When are we gonna get our money?” the taller kidnapper said.

  “Don’t ask me. Talk to old man Miller. He’s the one put the bounty out. Far as I know, the city hasn’t even charged McKenzie with a crime. The county, neither. I better make some calls.” The officer left the room. The two kidnappers followed him out.

  “We should get ’im some water,” the shorter one said.

  The water came in a plastic bottle with a blue label. I tried not to drink it too fast and failed. I asked for more. The officer gave me a kind of screw-you look, but my appearance must have changed his mind, because he quickly brought me two more bottles.

  I had always been contemptuous of the bottled-water crowd, especially those good folks who always seem to have a jug with them, sometimes carried in a little pouch like a pet. The municipal water system had always been good enough for me—that’s where most bottled water comes from, anyway. Also, I’d never much believed the myth, fiercely propagated by the bottled-water industry, that we should drink eight bottles every day in order to properly hydrate ourselves. I just couldn’t see any health benefit in going to the bathroom seventeen times a day. Nor did I take pride in knowing that Americans have the clearest and most expensive urine in the world. Instead, I’d generally heeded the advice of my dad, who said you should drink only when you are thirsty and never pay for anything that’s free. On the other hand, I didn’t think Dad spent much time in the trunk of a Ford Taurus on a sweltering day in July.

  I stood up, testing my legs. They seemed to work fine. I took a step in one direction and a second in the other—that was all I could manage with my wrist chained to the table, yet it filled me with confidence. I looked at myself in the one-way mirror. Red splotches on my shoulder and waist looked like large and dangerous bee stings. Half of my hair was plastered to my head; the other half stood out at awkward angles. I was in need of a shave, and despite the naps I took in the trunk, my face had the droopy look of someone who needed a good night’s sleep. My blue shorts were damp, and the sour odor of urine mixed with the aroma of fried chicken. It wasn’t a pretty smell, but it reminded me of how long it had been since I had last eaten, just the same.

  The officer returned to the room.

  “Sit down,” he said.

  “I’d rather stand,” I said.

  “Sit down.”

  There was an angry expression on his face, so I sat. I didn’t feel strong enough to defy him.

  He stepped over to the table. He took the empty water bottle and left the half-filled twin.

  “What’s that smell?” he said.

  “Where am I?” I said.

  The officer looked at me as if he thought I was putting him on. “The police department in Libbie,” he said.

  “Where is Libbie?”

  “Are you trying to be funny?”

  “Do I look like I’m trying to be funny?”

  “You’re back in South Dakota, asshole.”

  “Back? I’ve never been in South Dakota. Not once in my life.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Why have I been brought here against my will?”

  “Why is anyone brought here against their will?”

  “Look, pal. I heard you say that neither the city nor the county had any paper on me. So either release me or charge me. If you charge me, you had better read me my rights and let me contact an attorney.”

  The officer smirked and gave me a slow head shake. “Not this time, chiseler,” he said. “You’re not walking away this time.”

  This time?

  I asked him what he meant. He left the interrogation room without answering, closing the metal door behind him.

  There wasn’t much I could do except sit and wait, my elbows on the table, my head resting in my hands. I still had no idea what it was all about, why I was hustled to Libbie, South Dakota, wherever that was. Yet my natural confidence was returning. I felt sure that someone would explain it all to me soon, and eventually I would get my phone call. When I did—whom should I call? I wondered. A lawyer, G. K. Bonalay, probably. Except—does Nina know I’m missing? She’s probably worried sick. Certainly I’d be disappointed if she wasn’t. The cops, they must be searching for me, too. St. Anthony PD. St. Paul. Bobby Dunston. He’s probably rousting every punk, every offender I ever knew. Those damn bounty hunters, they were the criminals, I reminded myself. There were no wants, no warrants issued against me. Taking me like they did, transporting me across state lines, they have a phrase for that—it’s called felony kidnapping. A federal beef. Yeah, suddenly I knew exactly whom I was going to call. I was going to call Harry. I was going to call the FBI.

  I was thinking how much fun that was going to be when I heard a murmur of voices behind the mirror. They sounded excited. I couldn’t make out much, just a few words and phrases—“liar,” “thief,” “con artist,” and “bastard” were all closely tied to my name. The voices quieted and then became louder. A moment later the door to the interrogation room burst open. A man stepped through. He was big, one of those guys who could fill a bus seat all by himself. He was old, too, pushing seventy at least. Only he didn’t move like he was old. He crossed the floor in a hurry, raised a beefy hand, and swung down on my face. I tried to raise my arm to block the blow, only it was chained to the table and he was able to get over the top of it. He didn’t hit like he was old, either—I felt a stinging thump above my ear that caused my brain to vibrate. I tucked my head and turned it away. His next punches fell on my neck and shoulders. He hit me at least six, seven times before a trio of men subdued him and dragged him from the room. The name Mr. Miller was mixed with their shouts.

  “What was that?” I said to no one in particular.

  No one answered.

  “What the hell was that?”

  A tall man attired in the unifo
rm of the City of Libbie Police Department stepped back through the door. He was carrying a clipboard.

  “I am Chief of Police Eric Gustafson,” he said. “Are you Rushmore McKenzie?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  He glanced down at the sheet of paper attached to the clipboard. “Do you live in Falcon Heights in Minnesota?”

  “I do.”

  “When were you born?”

  I told him.

  He looked up. “Not in June?”

  “No, not in June,” I said.

  “What is your Social Security number?”

  I recited the nine digits.

  “Are you sure?” he said.

  “Positive.”

  He turned and left the room.

  I heard more voices, this time from the hallway outside the interrogation room door. Someone said, “Big mistake.” Someone else shouted, “No, no, no.” A third voice said, “Lineup? Photo array?”

  I heard nothing more. After a few minutes, I rested my head on the tabletop again. If I slept, I did so without noticing. There was a sharp rap on the mirror. I looked up and saw only myself. More time passed. I finished the water. I asked for more. Whoever was behind the mirror ignored the request.

  Moments later the chief returned to the room. He halted at the door, a look of confusion on his face.

  “Rushmore McKenzie.” He said the name slowly. “You were a police officer. You know—”

  “What do I know?”

  “You know—”

  “I know you got the wrong guy,” I said. “You sent your thugs to Minnesota. They busted down my door, Tasered me, dragged me from my bed, locked me in a trunk, transported me across state lines, and now you’re holding me without charges, without giving me my rights—these are all federal crimes. Right? You screwed up, and now you’re wondering what to do about it. That’s what I know.” I rattled the chain against the metal table. “Well?”

  He turned and stepped back through the doorway.

  “The longer you keep me here, the worse it’s going to get,” I said. “For both of us,” I added quietly as he shut the door behind him.