The Taking of Libbie, SD (18 page)

“That’s another thing. My name is Sara Anne—two words. People have been slurring my name since I can remember, and I want it to stop. It’s Sara Anne. Better yet, call me Sara. Just plain Sara.”

“You go, girl,” Nancy said.

The chief sighed some more. He said he wanted the names nonetheless. He suggested the two men witnessed the assault and, all things considered, could probably be encouraged to talk about it. Sara gave up the names. The chief wrote them down, closed his notebook, and buttoned it into the top pocket of his shirt. He bowed his head toward the girl.

“If you think of anything more, call me,” he said. “McKenzie, I’ll be in touch.”

The chief turned toward his wife. She had been standing to the side with her arms crossed over her chest.

“I guess I’ll be seeing you later,” he said to her.

“When my shift ends,” Nancy said. “If you’re still up.”

Sara Miller turned toward me the moment the chief left the room.

“What do you think?” she said.

“I think you are a very cool young lady.”

“Shuddup. Really?”

“Really. It’s getting late, though. Your parents must be worried about you.”

“I already called them. I don’t know why, but I feel so happy.”

“You’re a hero.”

“That’s not it. It’s—I don’t know what it is.”

“Have you ever read Saul Bellow?” I said.
“Seize the Day
?”

“Oh, McKenzie, you and your books. Don’t you know? It’s all video now.”

She hugged me again and announced that she had to go.

“Take care, Sara,” I said.

She smiled at the sound of her own name.

“See ya around,” she said.

A moment later she was gone.

“I’ve known that girl her entire life,” Nancy said. “That’s the longest I’ve seen her smile at one time. I have to admit, you do have a way with women.”

“It’s a gift,” I said.

“Do you want me to call Tracie for you?”

“No. If I’m going to be awakened by a woman every two hours, I’d rather it be by you.”

“Good choice.”

“What are you going to do about her?”

“Tracie? Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I have a pretty healthy self-esteem, McKenzie. Before time and work destroyed my body, I was a Ferrari; I was the sleekest sports car on the road. A dozen years later I’m an SUV. I’m not any happier about it than Eric. Yet that’s the way it is, and if he can’t deal with it, then he can’t. Let him run to Tracie. If he’d rather be with a drunk than his wife, so be it. I’m not going to change just to please somebody else.”

“That somebody else is your husband.”

“Spoken like a guy.”

“You might not have noticed, but you’re married to a guy.”

“Do you condone his behavior?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Well, then.”

“I don’t condone yours, either.”

“Mine?”

“You’ve given up.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re letting Tracie win. Where I come from, you never let the other guy win. He might beat you, but you never let him win. It’s a matter of principle.”

“Is that right?”

“Or is it character? I often get the two confused.”

“C’mon, McKenzie. Let’s find you a room.”

She pushed a wheelchair to where I was sitting on the gurney.

“Really?” I said.

“Get in.”

After I settled into the chair, Nancy wheeled me out of the emergency room to a waiting elevator.

“How long have you been in Libbie?” she asked.

“One full day.”

“And you already have it all figured out.”

“Of course. There’s one thing you should know, though.”

“What’s that?”

“I actually like Tracie Blake. She’s been very considerate. Even so, it wouldn’t bother me at all to see her run down by a Ferrari.”

Nancy gave me a hospital gown to wear, and I slipped into bed, keeping my back to the wall as I crossed from the bathroom after I changed.

“You didn’t strike me as the shy type, McKenzie,” she said.

“You didn’t strike me as a voyeur.”

“That’s why I took all those medical courses, so I could see the hairy butts of middle-aged men.”

“Who are you calling middle-aged?”

After I settled in, Nancy gave me a bottle of water and a remote control for the TV mounted high in the corner of the room.

“We have satellite,” she said.

“I’m good.” I set the remote aside. “If you have time, I wouldn’t mind chatting.”

Nancy pulled up a chair.

“Just as long as we don’t talk about me,” she said.

“Tell me about Libbie.”

“Let’s see. It was originally settled by a couple of ex–Seventh Cavalrymen who named it after General Custer’s wife, Elizabeth, who everyone called Libbie. What else do you want to know?”

“I think every town has its own personality. I’m trying to figure out Libbie’s; why it’s the way it is.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have discovered two things since I have been here. One is that all the women are preternaturally beautiful.”

“All?”

“All.”

Nancy smiled prettily. “What else?” she said.

“Man for man, this is the most screwed-up community I have ever seen.”

“The politically correct phrase is dysfunctional.”

“Dysfunctional, hell. You guys are raving lunatics. I’m beginning to think that you’re the sanest person in this burg.”

“Thanks for the compliment. I’ll put it in a box at home and take it out when I need cheering up.”

“I just don’t get it.”

“This is a dying town, McKenzie. If you were dying, you’d be screwed up, too.”

“Dying?”

“Have you seen the new high school?”

“Yes.”

“It was built for five hundred and fifty students. We have less than three hundred going there. Next year it’ll be even fewer. It’s happening all over. The counties in the Great Plains have been losing population for decades, and it isn’t going to stop. All the young people are moving to the cities—they should be moving to the cities. Break down the population of an average county and something like twelve-point-five percent will be sixty-five or older. That’s the national average. The average here in the Great Plains is twenty percent. And growing. I know the numbers because of the way it affects the medical community. The biggest industry in most small towns today is nursing homes. When these people die out—there are several hundred thousand square miles of the Great Plains that have fewer than six people per square mile living there; in some cases it’s two people per square mile. The last time that happened was eighteen ninety-something, and they declared that the frontier was closed. It might as well be the frontier again.”

“I remember hearing something about the Buffalo Commons,” I said.

“That was a proposal presented by a couple of sociologists twenty years ago. They claimed that most of the Great Plains was unsustainable, and they wanted the federal government to depopulate the area and turn it into a vast nature preserve. Of course, the government ignored them, but damn if it isn’t coming true anyway. Look around and all you’ll see is empty churches, abandoned farms, closed schoolhouses, shuttered businesses—I heard that there were six thousand ghost towns in Kansas alone. God knows how many there are around here.

“I’m telling you, McKenzie, it’s all dying. Fifty years from now, I doubt that anyone will be living here at all. That’s why people are the way they are. We’re all desperate.”

“Why do you stay?”

“It’s home.”

Nancy returned the chair to its spot near the wall.

“Try to get some sleep,” she said. “I’ll see you soon.”

She wasn’t kidding. Nancy woke me every two hours until her shift ended at 2:00 a.m., and she was replaced by a second nurse practitioner that was just as punctual. I wasn’t happy about it, yet I kept it to myself—crankiness and irritability are symptoms of a concussion, and I didn’t want to confuse anyone. I figured I could always return to the Pioneer Hotel in the morning to get some shuteye. No such luck. The second NP discovered that I had a low-grade temperature. She fed me ibuprofen and insisted that I remain in bed. I spent most of the morning on my cell phone burning minutes, talking to Nina and to Bobby and Shelby. I wondered how Victoria had fared with her research assignment. She was at a soccer tournament for the weekend, though, and wouldn’t return until Sunday evening. I said I’d call later. My fever broke just before noon. I dressed in the clothes I’d worn the previous day and walked to the Pioneer Hotel.

CHAPTER TEN

It was about a half mile to the hotel—everything in Libbie was about a half mile away—and the fresh air and exercise did me good. I actually broke a sweat, which was more a result of the heat than of any exertion on my part. I walked west past the First Integrity State Bank. Its electronic sign announced that at eleven fifty-two the temperature had reached ninety-seven degrees. I would have thought that the heat would have slowed people down, yet there was an unexpected energy to the traffic around me. The citizens of Libbie all seemed to move with a deliberateness that I had not seen before. It was as if they all shared a secret that they couldn’t wait to reveal to each other.

I stepped through the large wooden doors into the lobby of the Pioneer Hotel, where I was assaulted by a wave of cool air. I automatically began rubbing my hands over my upper arms the way people do when they want to warm themselves. Sharren Nuffer was sitting behind the reception desk, a pair of cheaters balanced on her nose, reading something on her computer screen.

“Hi,” I said.

Her head jolted upward.

“Oh my God, McKenzie,” she said.

The glasses came off quickly as Sharren rounded the desk. She came toward me, her arms flung wide.

“McKenzie,” she said again. A moment later, her arms were around me and she was hugging me tight. “You’re okay, you’re okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? What’s going on?”

“I was so worried about you. I heard what happened last night. I heard that they took you to the clinic. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Who told you about last night?”

Sharren paused a moment before answering.

“It’s a small town,” she said.

“Still, that’s a pretty enthusiastic welcome.”

“I thought, because of what happened, I thought—I don’t know what I thought.”

Sharren and I didn’t have that kind of relationship, I told myself. If she was anxious about me, it wasn’t because we were close. There was something else on her mind.

“What do you know that I don’t?” I said.

“You mean you haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“It’s terrible. Oh, McKenzie, it’s so terrible. That’s why I’m upset. Because of what happened to you last night and then this morning and Rush, the way he disappeared—”

“Sharren, you’re not making any sense.”

“I’m trying to, but I’m afraid. I’m afraid you’ll think less of me, and I wouldn’t like that.”

My cell phone, safely tucked in the pocket of my sports jacket, called to me. I held up a finger while I answered it.

“Hold that thought,” I told Sharren. “This is McKenzie,” I said into the phone.

“This is Chief Gustafson. Are you still in the hospital?”

“No. I was discharged a little while ago. What can I do for you, Chief?”

At the word “Chief,” Sharren took two steps backward and covered her mouth with her hand.

“How are you feeling?” he said. “Are you up for a little trip?”

“Chief—”

“I’m at Mike Randisi’s place. Do you remember how to get here?”

“Yes.”

“I need you to come out right away.”

“Why?”

“He’s dead. Somebody shot him.”

There were so many vehicles parked on Mike Randisi’s turnaround that I had to park well back on the gravel driveway and walk up the hill to his home. Most of the cars carried the emblem of the Perkins County Sheriff’s Department. One belonged to the Libbie Police Department. There was also a white van with quik-time foods painted across its doors. Dawn Neske, wearing her tailored light and dark blue uniform, stood in front of it, waving her arms emphatically at the two deputies that were interviewing her. Her arms froze in midgesture when she saw me. Her eyes grew wide, and her mouth hung open. The deputies turned to see what had captured Dawn’s attention. I gave them all one of Victoria Dunston’s microwaves.

Chief Gustafson opened the door to the house as if he had been watching for me. He waved me over.

“It’s not my case,” he said. “We just don’t have the resources for a deal like this. I handed it off to Big Joe Balk. He’s the county sheriff. He might kick it up to the South Dakota Division of Criminal Investigation, I don’t know.”

I flicked a thumb toward Dawn. She had resumed gesturing, and the deputies had resumed watching her.

“What is she doing here?” I asked.

“She discovered the bodies,” the chief said. “When she came to deliver Randisi’s groceries this morning.”

“Bodies?”

“Step inside. Don’t touch anything.”

I wasn’t prepared for what I found there.

Mike Randisi, dressed only in blue boxers, was lying on the kitchen floor. The bullet hole was on the left side, just below his ribs. It was a small hole, surrounded by seared, blackened skin and a patch of powder soot. Soot also stained both of his hands. There was very little blood around the entrance wound. The exit wound in his back was a different matter. Instead of a neat hole, there was a deep, irregular gash, with tissue and bone protruding from it. There was an enormous amount of blood on his back, on the floor, and splattered all over the kitchen appliances, cabinets, cupboards, and floor. It had not yet dried. Next to him on the floor was the long-barreled .38 Colt.

I turned away, fighting the impulse to steady myself against the kitchen counter (I didn’t want to corrupt the crime scene with my fingerprints) while fighting an even great impulse to vomit in the sink (I didn’t want to look like a wuss). I forced myself to concentrate. The blackened skin suggested a near-contact wound, I told myself. That and the powder burns on his hands left open the possibility that Randisi and his killer had wrestled over the gun and Randisi lost. The murder weapon—it was Mike’s, his name was Mike—he seemed like a nice guy. Dammit! Concentrate. If he was killed by his own gun, that likely ruled out premeditation. If it had been premeditated, the killer would have brought his own weapon; of course he would, wouldn’t you? The killer came to Mike’s place because, well, because there was no way Mike would have gone to see the killer. He had agoraphobia. He was taking sertraline. The orange prescription bottle was right there on the counter next to the sink.