Madman on a Drum Read Free

Somehow I had skipped directly to the fourth stage, depression. I had to get back to stage two—anger. Anger was good. Anger was motivation. You could work with anger.
    â€œWe’re going to kill that sonuvabitch,” I said. I glared at all four law enforcement officers in the room. None of them offered an argument.
    I grabbed Harry’s forearm and used him as a crutch to straighten up. The nausea was now in my throat. I forced it back down.
    â€œYou need to hear the entire tape,” Bobby said.
    â€œTell me what happened first.”
    He did. When he finished it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen any cars parked in front of Bobby’s house when I drove up. Or anyone above the age of fourteen loitering at the park across the street.
    â€œWe have someone in the back and two agents in the front watching for anyone who might be watching the house,” Harry assured me. “All the license plates are being checked, including those in the lot at the park. So far our biggest problem has been keeping the St. Paul Police Department away. Everyone wants to help.”
    â€œWe’re canvassing the neighborhood,” Honsa said.
    â€œYou’re what? You’re not supposed to be here,” I said.
    â€œWe’re not,” Honsa said. “McKenzie, we don’t wear black suits and sunglasses. We don’t drive Lincolns with U.S. government license plates. Canvassing around the abduction point is covert. It’s discreet. We know what we’re doing.”
    I nodded in agreement, more than a little embarrassed. TV and movies always got it wrong about cops and federal agents. There was very little animosity, jealousy, and distrust between them—probably because there were actually very few FBI agents who were arrogant, imperious, incompetent jerks with my-way-or-the-highway attitudes and even fewer rogue cops who played by their own rules. Especially these days with mutual need—and budget cuts—resulting in so many joint task forces. Maybe things were different in New York or Miami or Washington, D.C. In the Twin Cities everyone got along pretty well. Still, I watched a lot of TV and movies, and sometimes it was hard to shake off the fiction.
    â€œThe van was reported stolen two weeks ago,” Honsa said in case I required more convincing. “We have a team on the owner. However, we do not consider him a suspect at this time. The description of the van and the license plate number are being circulated using hard messaging systems—MDT screens in squad cars, briefings during shift changes— so it won’t be intercepted by someone’s police scanner. Our own lines are encrypted, of course.”
    I nodded some more.
    â€œYoung Ms. Katherine did well getting us the plate—all the numbers were correct. Very smart, very brave.” That last part was for Bobby.
    â€œShe blames herself for leaving Tory,” he said.
    â€œWhere is she?” I asked.
    â€œUpstairs with Shelby.”
    â€œMay I see them?”
    â€œListen to the tape first.”
    They started it from the top.
    â€œYes?” Bobby said.
    â€œDunston?” asked the caller.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œVictoria’s fine, your daughter’s fine, okay? I didn’t hurt her. She keeps struggling against the ropes, and I tell her to quit it. Other than that there’s not a mark on her. I’m telling you so you shouldn’t worry, okay? We’re not sexual deviants or anything like that, okay? As long as you do what you’re told, as long as you don’t call the Feds, the girl’ll be fine.”
    â€œI want to talk to her.”
    â€œLater.”
    â€œI want—”
    â€œShuddup and listen. Are you listening?”
    â€œI’m listening.”
    â€œI don’t want no shit from you, Bobby.”
    He knows Bobby, my inner voice informed me. They have a relationship.
    â€œYour girl’ll be fine long as you do what I