The Taking of Libbie, SD by David Housewright Read Free Book Online

the outside, the Pioneer seemed almost quaint, a dignified redbrick Victorian with three floors and no elevator. Yet the inside had an air of quiet dissipation. The reception area was crammed with faded couches, armchairs, and marble-top tables with ceramic figurines, ashtrays, fake Roman busts, and lamps with shades fringed with tassels. It didn’t seem old-fashioned as much as it seemed merely old.
    After checking in, I carried the key and my shopping bags to the worn-carpeted staircase. Tracie tried to follow. I stopped her at the base of the stairs.
    “This is where I draw the line,” I said.
    “But—” Tracie said.
    “No buts.”
    “Ahh,” said Sharren. “Too bad, so sad.”
    She said it with a smile, yet it was obvious that the two women did not like each other. It was equally obvious that they were very much alike.
    Tracie frowned. “Dinner? Say in an hour?”
    “Make it an hour and a half. I have calls to make.”
    Tracie was looking at Sharren when she said, “There’s a diner down the street.”
    “We serve a very nice filet if you want real food,” Sharren said. “Perhaps you’d care for room service.”
    Sharren batted her long, fake eyelashes at me, but I assumed that was for Tracie’s benefit. The way I looked—seriously, not even an aging divorcée in Libbie, South Dakota, could be that hard up.
    “Where is the diner?” I asked.
    “Café Rossini,” Tracie said. “Out the door and to the left.”
    “I’ll meet you there.”
    “Ninety minutes.” Tracie turned and left the hotel, but not before throwing Sharren a triumphant smirk.
    Sharren smirked back.
    “You won’t be getting much from her,” she said. “Very cold, that one. Very dry.”
    I was startled by the remark, and if I had been standing closer to Sharren I might have said something or done something about it. I don’t know why I had become defensive of Tracie, yet I had. Or maybe it’s just that my nerves were still keyed up by what had happened to me earlier; I wanted payback and didn’t particularly care who suffered for it.
    I said nothing, did nothing, except turn and climb the stairs.

CHAPTER THREE
    My room was on the second floor. It was small and stylish with a soaring ceiling and black-and-white tiles in the bathroom. There was a double bed with a blue-green spread and a mattress that sagged slightly in the middle. The other furnishings were simple oak—a desk, a chair, an armoire, and a table in front of a window facing First Street. Inside the armoire was a TV that offered HBO; a phone sat on the desk.
    I dropped the bags on the bed and went straight for the phone. There was something instantly comforting about it. It gave me a connection to the world—to my world—that the kidnappers had taken from me. Unfortunately, the feeling lasted only until I picked up the receiver and listened to the dial tone. I couldn’t remember the numbers of my friends, of the people I wanted to call. I hadn’t memorized them; I had seen no need. Instead, I programmed all the numbers into my cell or the phone hanging on the wall in my kitchen. When I wanted to make a call, I would just scroll through the memory for a name. Without my cell—I returned the receiver to the cradle. My headache became worse.
    Still, there was directory assistance. The instructions attached to the base of the phone told me that local calls were free but that there was a surcharge for long distance. What the hell, I decided—Miller was paying for it. I dialed nine, followed by four-one-one. After a mechanical voice recited the number I requested, the telephone company announced that it would dial the number for a nominal fee. Fine with me. A moment later, I was connected to the Minneapolis office of the FBI, and a moment after that I reached Special Agent Brian Wilson.
    “Hi, Harry,” I said.
    “Jesus Christ, McKenzie, where are you? Are you all right?”
    I knew he was concerned because he didn’t admonish me for using the nickname Harry,