Highway 61 (29 page)

“Hey, McKenzie,” he said. He spoke as if I were a guest he was expecting for an afternoon of beer, barbecue, and football.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Well, sure,” he said.

Truhler looked it, too. He was wearing a black chef’s apron with the name and logo of
Iron Chef America
embossed in red on the front and holding a red stir spoon. The apron was identical to the one Erica had given me for Christmas the year before. It had been one of my favorite gifts of the season, and seeing Truhler wearing it made me feel a twinge of jealousy.

“I’m glad to see that you’ve recovered from your concussion,” I said.

“My what?” Truhler asked.

“Didn’t the doctors diagnose you with a Grade Two concussion?”

Truhler waved the remark away. “That was so long ago,” he said.

Three whole days,
my inner voice said.
What a fast healer.

“C’mon in,” Truhler said. “I’m making jambalaya. It’s not exactly a Sunday brunch item, but I like it.”

He turned and casually walked into his kitchen. I followed after carefully locking the front door.

“Rickie said you make a pretty good jambalaya,” he said over his shoulder. “I bet mine’s better. You put in shrimp and crab, am I right? I use a classic chicken recipe straight from the bayou. Plenty of andouille sausage.”

Apparently a love for cooking was another thing besides music that Truhler and I had in common. I was beginning to seriously question Nina’s judgment in men, only I didn’t linger over it.

“Am I missing something?” I asked.

“What?”

“You don’t look frightened.”

“Should I be?”

“You said the Joes called. You said they wanted their money today. You said they would call later and tell you where to deliver it.” I tapped my own chest. “I’m frightened. Why aren’t you?”

“Did you bring the money?”

“I’m not going to give those bastards fifty thousand dollars.”

Truhler’s face clouded over for a moment, but it was an expression of disappointment, not alarm.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay?”

“The jambalaya needs to simmer for at least another hour. Do you want a beer?”

“Are you kidding me, Truhler? The last time we spoke about this you were damn near paralyzed with fear. What’s changed?”

“You’re not going to let anything bad happen, are you, McKenzie?”

There was a mocking quality in Truhler’s voice that I had a hard time getting my head around.

“Whatever happens, I promise it’s going to be bad,” I said.

Truhler went to his refrigerator and pulled out two bottles of Summit Extra Pale Ale, my favorite, brewed in St. Paul, my hometown. He twisted the cap off one bottle and handed it to me.

“The football pregame shows are on,” he said. “Do you want to watch?”

He is mocking you,
my inner voice said.

“Talk to me, Truhler,” I said.

“Talk about what?”

“Have it your own way. I’m outta here. You can confront the Joes on your own.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, I’ll confront the Joes on my own.”

He smiled when he said it, actually smiled. Then I knew.

“You made a deal,” I said.

Truhler’s smile became broader.

“What deal?” I asked. ”What deal did you make?”

“Relax, McKenzie. It’s all working out.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I got us both off the hook.”

I carefully set my bottle of ale on the kitchen counter, reached out, grabbed a fistful of his apron, and pulled him close.

“What deal?” I asked.

“Don’t do that.” Truhler pushed against me, yet I held firm. “I did you a favor, man.”

“What favor?”

“I got you out of the motel room before the Joes showed up. Okay? Nobody gets hurt. You don’t get hurt, and we don’t owe the Joes anything. You should be happy.”

It took a couple of beats for it all to sink in.

“The Joes know where Vicki is?” I asked.

“Yeah, they know where she is. They know you were watching over her. I did you a favor, McKenzie. Now you’re out of it. They’ll get Vicki, and then they’ll forget about the thirty-five thousand we owe.”

“What about Vicki?”

“She’s a blackmailer. She’s a whore. What do you care about Vicki?”

“What have you done?”

“I’ve saved your ass, that’s what I’ve done.”

“Give me a second,” I said. I was talking more to myself than I was to Truhler. I released the apron and took a step backward.

Think it through …

“How did the Joes know Vicki and I were in Hastings?” I asked. “How did you know?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Why would the Joes make a deal with you?”

“That’s where it gets a little complicated.”

I grabbed Truhler by the apron again and pushed him backward until he bounced off the door of his refrigerator.

“Tell me,” I said.

“What do you care?” he asked. “It all worked out. That’s the important thing.”

“Tell me.”

“The Joes knew you were looking for Vicki.”

“How did they know?”

“I told them. Okay? I told them.”

“When did you tell them?”

“The night they came to my place. The Joes wanted their drugs or their money. I knew Roberta had hired them to find Vicki because they had asked me about her before; they talked to everyone who was involved with Vicki. I told them that you were looking for her, too, and that you were pretty smart about that sort of thing and that when you found her I would tell them if they would forget about the money. The money they would make with Vicki’s files was so much more than the thirty-five thousand we owed they figured it was a good investment.”

“I told you that night that I wasn’t going to look for her anymore.”

“That’s why I had to—they didn’t really hit me that hard. Just hard enough, you know? Look, I know you’re upset, but it all worked out for the best. Now everyone’s happy.”

“What about Vicki?”

“Christ, McKenzie, why are you worrying about that slut? She’s getting what she deserves.”

“You sonuvabitch.”

I released Truhler’s apron and made for the front door.

“Where are you going?” Truhler asked. “Are you going back to Hastings? Are you crazy?”

I stopped only long enough to look into his mystified eyes.

“I’m not going to forget this, Truhler,” I said. “I’m not going to forget that you used me. I’m not going to forget that the Joes wanted thirty-five thousand for their shit and you tacked on an extra fifteen for yourself.”

I heard him calling to me out of the open door as I rushed to the Altima.

“Don’t be like that,” he said. “C’mon. It all worked out. C’mon.”

*   *   *

I threw a plume of dust and dirt into the air when I pulled too fast into the motel parking lot and hit the brakes. I had tried to call Vicki several times while speeding there from Eden Prairie, but her cell phone was not answered. Seeing that the door to the motel room had been left open made me believe the worst. I called Vicki’s name as I rushed inside just the same, shutting the door behind me. The drapes were still closed over the window, and I turned on the overhead light to see more clearly. I was half expecting to find Vicki’s body. I was relieved to see that it wasn’t there. The room had been torn apart—the drawers had been taken out of the credenza, the mattresses had been overturned and ripped open, the carpet had been taken up in some places, and Vicki’s green leather handbag had been turned practically inside out, its contents strewn everywhere. I searched carefully, but I couldn’t find her BlackBerry, either.

I slumped into the chair where I’d spent the previous evening, feeling completely and utterly defeated. I covered my face with my hands.

They had her, those sonsuvbitches, I told myself. They had Vicki—and her files.

My entire body began to tremble at the thought of it.

The Joes had Vicki. A beautiful young woman. I tried not to imagine what they were doing to her, laughing while they did it, but I kept seeing the photograph of Denny Marcus in my mind’s eye, and I couldn’t make it go away.

“Dammit. How did they know she was here?”

This is your fault,
my inner voice told me.
You should never have left the coffeehouse. You should have stayed there, protecting Vicki until the cops came. You should have turned her over to the police after you saw the news last night. You should have called Bobby Dunston. You should never, ever, ever have left her alone. What else should you have done?

Bobby’s words came back to me.
Are you still a good guy, McKenzie? Are you on the right side of the line? Do you even know where the line is anymore?

“Oh God, what am I going to do?”

The walls of the motel room wouldn’t give me an answer, so I looked up at the ceiling. There was a crack that I hadn’t noticed the previous night. My eyes followed it. It ran from the center of the wall just above the TV all the way to the light fixture, disappearing under one of the sailboats painted on the cover.

I could see a rectangular shape outlined against the glass that had not been there before.

I stood and snapped off the light, and the rectangle disappeared.

“Vicki,” I said.

I hopped on the bed, reached over the glass cover, and pulled the shape out.

It was Vicki’s purple BlackBerry.

She knew how important it was to her survival. That’s why she hid it. She was buying time.

“Clever girl,” I said.

It made sense. The Joes had searched for Vicki’s files and didn’t find them; otherwise she would have been killed on the spot. They took her, and I guessed they would keep her until she gave them what they wanted. I did not find much solace in the thought, knowing what those bastards had done to Denny Marcus. Still, it meant Vicki was alive and would stay alive until the Joes had the BlackBerry. It gave me precious time.

Time to do what?
my inner voice asked.
How are you going to find her? Where are you going to look?

“I’m not,” I said aloud.

By my watch the Joes had been holding Vicki for as long as two and a half hours. Given what I knew about them, if they hadn’t broken her yet, they soon would. Then they would be coming back here.

I put the BlackBerry in my jacket pocket and stepped outside. The harsh sunlight caused me to shield my eyes with the flat of my hand. I did a quick scan of the parking lot. Most of the cars were parked nose-in facing motel rooms. Others were parked along the perimeter.

That’s where you should be,
my inner voice told me.

The Joes didn’t know I was driving an Altima. I could park across the lot, slump against the door, and wait. They would never know I was there. Sooner or later they would come for the BlackBerry. Most likely they would bring the girl with them. One would go into the room. The other would stay in their Buick with Vicki. I would come up from behind, using the Buick’s blind spot. When the Joe left the motel room, I’d shoot him. Then I’d shoot the Joe driving the Buick.

I glanced at my watch.

“Don’t wait too long, Vicki,” I said. “Tell them everything.”

I left the door to the motel room the way I had found it and moved toward the Altima. Again I scanned the parking lot. There was no traffic on this end of the strip mall. It was all up by the gas station and café. I put my hand on the door handle—and stopped.

There, at the door of the gas station, dressed in a white shirt, light blue cardigan sweater, and blue jeans, with golden hair tied behind her head, sipping a slush drink through a straw—“Vicki,” I shouted.

I ran toward her, calling her name. She looked up, smiled, and waved. When I was close enough to hear, she said, “That didn’t take long.”

I grabbed her by the arms, nearly knocking the drink from her hand.

“Where were you?” I asked.

“McKenzie, you’re hurting me.”

“Where were you?”

“Stop hurting me.”

Vicki twisted in my grasp. “What’s wrong?”

I hugged her close, surprising myself by the gesture.

“I thought they had you,” I said. “I thought—but you’re all right. You’re all right.”

“We could have done this last night if you had wanted,” she said.

I took her arms again and pushed backward so that I could look into her eyes. She was smiling broadly.

“The Joes know you’re here,” I said.

The smile went away.

“What?”

“They lured me away so they could take you. They broke into the room, but you weren’t there.”

“I went across the street to play bingo,” Vicki said. “I lost every game. Oh, no, my BlackBerry.”

“I found it. I have it. Why didn’t you take it with you?”

“What if I lost it? McKenzie, it’s my get-out-of-jail-free card.”

“You didn’t take your bag, either.”

“Just my wallet.” Vicki showed it to me and put it back into her sweater pocket. “Did they wreck my stuff?”

I pulled the Beretta from its holster and held it low with both hands, the muzzle pointed toward the ground. I spun to face the parking lot. Vicki set her drink on the ground.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I just realized, the Joes didn’t get what they came for.”

“Do you think they’re still here?”

“Get behind me.”

“They are here.”

“I would be.”

Together Vicki and I worked our way back toward the motel room, moving cautiously, yet also quickly. I scanned the parking lot and the rest of the strip mall as we went, searching for a battered Buick, yet didn’t find one. I was surprised that nobody in the gas station or café seemed to notice us. When we were close to the Altima, I slipped the keys from my pocket and gave them to Vicki.

“I need you to drive until we get out of here,” I said. “You can drive, right?”

If she was insulted by the question, she didn’t show it.

“Right,” she said.

We had ten yards to go when they appeared.

Only they weren’t the Joes and they weren’t driving a Buick.

A black German sedan, its front end now in desperate need of repair, came to a screeching halt in front of us. It was stopped at an angle so the driver and the passenger could use the car doors for cover. Two men dressed in suits—suits!—hopped out with guns in their hands. I fired first, forcing them to duck. That gave me enough time to push Vicki down between two parked cars.