Pretty Girl Gone (31 page)

Testen’s head jerked up and he held it at an angle that suggested he was listening for something. I deactivated the cell phone. I was breathing deeply and rapidly and the noise distressed me. I covered my mouth with my hand, hoping my breathing sounds wouldn’t be heard at any distance.

I wondered how long it would take for help to arrive. If it was the Twin Cities, the first squad would have been on the scene within two minutes. But this wasn’t the Cities. There was no telling where the nearest cop could be.

The wound wasn’t bad. Movie heroes would call it a mere flesh wound and then ignore it. Pardon me if I wasn’t as hardy as those guys. I gathered up another handful of fresh snow and winced in pain as I pressed it against the injury. I started running some more, pushing deeper into the woods.

The snow didn’t seem quite as deep under the thick trees, only about a foot. It was hard going, but not as hard as it had been. Still, after fifty yards I was breathing rapidly and I began to feel warm inside my coat. Soon I was perspiring freely. I had trouble seeing in the woods and tripped several times over branches hidden in the snow. I dug up one of them and began carrying it as a weapon—it was three feet long, two inches thick, and better than nothing.

The branch gave me confidence. My original plan was simple. Avoid Testen, cross the park, find a street, find a house, wait for help, don’t get lost, stay alive—simple. Now I was thinking about taking the battle to him, wound or no wound. Circle around and attack Testen from behind. Or lie in ambush and hit him as he passed.

I paused for a moment to rest. The area around my injury had
become numb and the bleeding had stopped, yet I kept the snow pressed over it just the same.

Again I searched for Testen. I couldn’t see him, but I doubted he had given up the chase. It wasn’t about money, or anger, or even survival with him. That’s not why he killed Elizabeth and shot Mallinger. Coach killed for pride. He would never quit.

Dammit, you can never find a cop when you need one.

After a few moments, I continued walking, keeping low. I began to lose sense of both time and distance. I had no idea where I was. I halted, crouched in the snow. I was positive that the park must end just ahead with a street and houses beyond, except I had nothing on which to base that assertion except my own natural confidence. Or was it merely wishful thinking?

Where in hell was Testen?

I marched forward. Suddenly, I was out of the woods. Only it wasn’t a street I had found, just a wide path. The path had appeared so abruptly that I was several yards deep into it before I shied like a startled horse and retreated back along my trail. I squatted behind a stand of spruce and examined the path.
It must lead to the street,
my inner voice told me, but that was just a guess. Still, it must lead somewhere. My concern was the light. In winter it’s never entirely dark. The snow and ice always find one source or another of illumination to magnify and reflect, like the hundreds of stars in the night sky. The path seemed inordinately bright. I would be terribly exposed.

I watched the path for what seemed like a long time. Nothing moved on it except a few grains of ice and snow propelled by the wind. I could wait, I told myself. Go to ground. If Testen used the path, I’d be in perfect position to bushwhack him. Otherwise, the police and sheriff deputies were bound to arrive sometime—maybe after the high school basketball game. Except I really couldn’t tell how serious the wound was. My hand holding the snow over the wound had become numb. So
had my feet. My exposed ears and cheeks had become so cold they ached. Waiting didn’t seem like an option.

I gave myself a slow count to three and dashed forward.

It was a mistake.

Testen had been waiting for me. Apparently he possessed greater patience.

He saw me, called out my name, and demanded that I stop.

I continued running along the path toward wherever it led. My legs ached and my lungs burned—you try sprinting through a foot of snow. I tripped, fell, skidded across the path, regained my feet and kept running.

Testen was shooting.

A bullet exploded snow at my feet; another whistled past my ear.

The snow was so deep.

I had no speed.

No chance.

I tripped and fell against the trunk of the tree. I couldn’t run anymore. Not in the snow.

Testen was behind me, waving his gun. I turned to face him. He was as winded as I was. Worse. Yes, much worse. His breath came hard and fast and he was holding his side. There was a look of pain on his face.

He had the gun. I had only a branch hidden between my body and the tree. I gripped it tightly.

“Don’t move,” Testen shouted.

He was closer now.

Let him come.

If I could hit him and get past him, I could outrun him. Seeing him the way he was, I knew I could escape. If he came closer.

He did.

“It didn’t have to be this way,” he said.

He could barely get the words out.

He extended his arm, pointing the gun.

A target.

I brought the branch out from behind me and struck down hard at Testen’s wrist.

He yanked his arm out of the way.

I missed.

Testen was startled by my weapon and took a step backward.

I swung again.

Missed again.

Testen brought his gun up.

I lunged at him.

He pivoted away and my momentum took me past him. I tripped and fell headlong into the snow. I dropped the branch.

Testen was there.

I attempted to crawl through the snow on hands and knees, trying to escape into the woods, knowing there was no escape.

Testen followed me easily, the gun leading the way. He seemed amused by my efforts.

A shout. From behind us.

“Halt. Police.”

A silly thing to say given the circumstances, I thought.

Testen turned toward the voice.

Mallinger was staggering forward along the path, her left arm pressed hard against her side, her right hand holding the Glock, her face twisted with pain and effort. She brought the Glock up, pointed it more or less at Testen.

Testen stood straight. He held his own gun at his side and watched the Chief approach.

He might have surrendered, who knows? Except Mallinger collapsed. She pitched forward into the snow. The Glock slipped from her grasp and was lost. Mallinger was still alive, still trying to make headway, only it was like a woman thrashing in her sleep. Testen watched the Chief for a moment before turning toward me.

“This is your fault,” he said. “None of this would have happened except for you.”

He raised the gun until the barrel was pointing at my face.

My mind became a satellite dish—five hundred channels. I surfed through them all, holding no image long, never finishing a thought, until finally a stillness settled in me, the screen empty. I closed my eyes and braced myself for the impact of bullets.

Another shout.

“Hey.”

I opened my eyes and saw Testen pivoting toward the voice, the gun still pointed at me.

Greg Schroeder stood next to Mallinger’s prone body, her Glock cradled in his two hands. He was sighting down the barrel.

“Don’t shoot me,” Testen cried.

Schroeder killed him anyway.

It happened in slow motion.

Testen seemed to lean forward, crouching like he was about to spring into a dive. The bullets—there were four of them—hit him high in the chest and straightened him out. Some of the bullets went through him, and a spray of blood splattered both the snow and me. The force of the bullets lifted Coach up and away. His arms spread wide and then his legs, and when he splashed backward into the snow and came to a rest he looked like a man who was making angels.

A moment later, it was real time. Schroeder was standing next to me, the Glock resting against his thigh. He glanced at Coach Testen’s body for a moment, then back at me. He opened my jacket, examined the bullet wound, grunted “hmmpf,” like it was nothing to get excited about.

“How you doin’, pal?” he asked as he helped me to my feet.

“Is he dead?”

“If he’s not, he never will be. Are you all right?”

I heard him; I couldn’t answer. I didn’t know if I was all right or
not. I felt my body shaking, yet that could have just as easily been the cold. I was so very cold. I stared at Testen’s body, couldn’t seem to pull my eyes away.
Should you laugh or cry or what?
my inner voice asked.

“McKenzie? Look at me!”

I looked.

“Are you all right?” Schroeder repeated.

“It was just a walk in the park, Greg.”

Together we trudged back to Mallinger. The Chief was kneeling in the snow, her right hand clutching her left armpit. Schroeder opened her jacket to examine the wound. Over his shoulder I could see that Mallinger was much worse off than I was. She had lost an enormous amount of blood. I eased past Schroeder. I pulled my handkerchief from my pocket and pressed it into the bullet hole in the muscle between Danny’s arm and her chest, trying to check the bleeding. She winced in pain, but said nothing.

Schroeder held out the Glock by the barrel.

“Take it,” he told the Chief.

Mallinger seemed dazed. She stared at Schroeder for a moment like she was waiting for something to happen. When it didn’t, she reached for the gun with her bloody hand, took it by the grip, and looked at it like she didn’t know what it was.

“Screw it up and God knows how it’ll end, Chief. If you play it smart and take the credit—Look at me.” Mallinger looked. “Take the credit and you’ll be a hero. Work it right and you’ll be chief of police for as long as you want the job.”

Schroeder patted my back. Maybe he winked at me, I couldn’t tell in the darkness, although I was sure there was a smile.

Then he was gone.

Huge trucks and SUVs, their headlights blinding, came at me from the oncoming lane. They passed with a loud snatching sound, ripping the air around the Audi, creating tremors that I felt in the steering wheel. I was driving well beyond my headlights along State Highway 60, heading toward Mankato. I hadn’t felt my fatigue until I started driving, and now it threatened to overwhelm me. I played all the tricks—slapping my face, powering down the window to let the frozen air do it for me, chewing gum, singing. I even poked my side, hoping the shock of pain would help keep my eyes open. Above all, I avoided staring at the white stripes, refusing to let them hypnotize me into an accident. Probably I should have stopped and rested. But I had to get shy of Victoria. I had to get home.

After I went to Mankato.

According to the Mankato phone directory, G. Monteleone, the only Monteleone in the book, had a house on Floral Avenue near the Minnesota State University campus. It was nearly ten
P.M.
when I
knocked on the door. A light flicked on above my head. The door opened and Monteleone peered out. She saw my face, which I suppose looked frightening, and the dried blood on my jacket and slacks, which must have looked worse. A fearful expression formed on her face.

“Do you remember me?” I asked.

“What are you doing here?”

“I need to ask a few questions.”

“I only conduct business at school. If you call tomorrow . . .”

“It’s about your son.”

Monteleone held tighter to the door.

“What is this about, Mr., Mr. . . . ?”

“McKenzie. You told me your grandson was a Sagittarius, like his father.”

Monteleone hesitated.

“Yes,” she said.

“That means he was born between November 22 and December 21, like his father.”

“What is this about?”

“That means your son was conceived in March. You didn’t meet your husband until June, after you left Victoria—do the math.”

“Mr. McKenzie—”

“You didn’t date anyone in Victoria, Suzi Shimek told me so.”

“What has that got to do . . . ?”

“Tell me about March.”

Monteleone answered with a blank stare.

“Jack Barrett is your son’s father. Isn’t he? You were having an affair with your student and you became pregnant and that’s why you left Victoria—to keep it private. Not even Jack knows.”

Monteleone continued to hug the door while her face came florid with anger.

“That’s the most outrageous thing I’ve ever heard,” she insisted.

“Jack Barrett was with you the night Elizabeth Rogers was murdered. You left at eight thirty. He left a few minutes later. That’s what the fight with Elizabeth Rogers was all about, him leaving her for you. Only he never spoke of it. He could have used you as an alibi for her murder. He didn’t. He cared for you so much that he was willing to protect you at his own peril. Because of that, for over thirty years the chief of police and nearly everyone else in Victoria was sure he had committed murder. For over thirty years the real killer got away with his crime.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“The truth often is. Ms. Monteleone, I’m not here to compromise you in any manner. I’ll protect your privacy if for no other reason than that’s what Jack Barrett wants. He’s an honorable man, the only honorable man I’ve met in what seems like a good long time. But I need to know. I need to be sure.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why should I trust you to keep my secrets?”

For an instant I flashed on Jack Barrett and Lindsey, I saw Donovan and Muehlenhaus and all the others, and I heard the words they emphasized during the meeting in Muehlenhaus’s conference room.
You have already proven to us that you can keep a secret.

“Because that’s what I do,” I said. “You don’t know me, so you have no reason to trust me, but time will prove that I’m telling you the truth. I will never repeat to anyone what you tell me here, tonight. You have my word.”

“I will answer one question. Only one.”

“Was Jack Barrett with you the night Elizabeth Rogers was killed?”

“Yes.”

“Good night, Ms. Monteleone. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”