“The hell I am,” he says.
His tone is getting bolder as he reassesses his circumstances. He must think I’m going to take him back to America and place him under arrest. I stand up, walk around the tree, and tug the belt tight to unbuckle it. He gags and coughs for effect as I take the belt off his throat, roll it into a coil, and put it in my coat pocket.
“I’m not going with you!” he yells. “You’re a man of the law. You can’t do this. You’re insane if you think I’m going to go with you. Cut me loose now and maybe I won’t sue you for breaking my arm.”
I wrap the rope around his neck and pull it tight.
“What the—?”
With the rope in one hand and the ax handle in the other, I begin to drag him down the hill toward the lake. I can hear him choking and making gurgling sounds, but no words can escape past the rope around his throat. It takes me only a minute to get him to the edge of the lake. He’s not heavy, but his shoulders plow up a pile of snow as we go. I know I won’t be able to pull him very far before I fall over from exhaustion. But then again, how long will he be able to go without breathing?
Before stepping onto the ice, I stop and put some slack into the rope. His airway opens and he starts to cough and sputter and gasp for air. When he can take a full breath, he grits his teeth and lets loose a wail. His eyes are still pinched shut as he yells, “You broke my arm, you fucking lunatic.”
He is trussed up, helpless, and in a great deal of pain. I think I have a pretty good starting point for negotiations, so I again squat down next to him.
“Like I said, you are coming with me. That is not up for discussion. You can come with me voluntarily or I can drag you. It doesn’t make me a bit of difference. You decide.”
“You think there’s no payback for this?” he says, spitting the words out of his mouth. “I’ll have your badge. I’ll sue your department and you personally. If you don’t let me go right now, I promise you, I’ll make you pay for this.”
“Okay,” I say. “Dragging it is.”
I stand back up and shrug.
“No! No. I’ll walk.”
I start to tug on the rope.
“I said I’ll walk!” And then in words that barely leaked past the slipknot, “For Christ’s sake, stop!”
He’s lying on his back and I plop down onto his knees to separate his boots so he can walk. I keep the rope around his neck and lift him to his feet.
“March,” I order.
He seems a bit shaky at first—it’s probably hard to walk through deep snow with your arms bound. Or it could be the crack I put in his skull that’s making him wobbly. He’s not talking, but he gives an occasional grunt to let me know that he’s struggling.
As we trek across the frozen lake, I start to feel a bit shaky myself, and it occurs to me that I haven’t eaten in over twelve hours, nor slept in twenty-four. I should have grabbed a bite when I went back to the cabin to get the rope and auger, but I was concentrating so hard on the task that I overlooked the long game. The physical exertion of tromping back and forth through the snow was already starting to take a toll, and we’re just beginning this crucible.
As we near the middle of the lake, I keep an eye out for where I had stashed the tarp. When we come to that spot, I give a short yank on the rope and like a well-trained horse, the man comes to a stop. I drop the ax handle and throw my shoulder into his back, sending him toppling face-first into the snow. He curses and screams as I use the rope to tie his feet together. When I am satisfied with the strength of the binding, I roll him over onto his back.
“Have you completely lost your mind?” he yells. “I swear to God, if you don’t let me go right now, I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure that you pay for this!”
“You’ll make me pay for this?” I stand up and use my legs like a snow plow, creating an opening down to the lake’s surface as I talk. “And what will that price be? What could you possibly do to me to make us even? I’d really like to know what you think is fair?”
“What are you doing?” he asks.
I ignore him and keep clearing snow until I have a nest about the size of a tractor tire. Then I find the auger. When I pick it up, I see a spark of recognition in his eyes; and, behind that, I see what I’m hoping to see—fear.
CHAPTER 11
Minneapolis—Two Days Ago
On the drive back to City Hall, I was lost in thought, immersed and weightless in a deep pool of illumination brought to me by Farrah McKinney. On the day she died, Jenni was trying to help a girl named Zoya, a girl of maybe sixteen or seventeen, a girl being trafficked for sex, or so they thought. Jenni was trying to save her life. As I floated in this new information, my squad-car stereo played softly in the background. The whispers of a song broke through to my consciousness and I was pulled out of my trance. The song was “Runaway Train,” by Soul Asylum. I stopped thinking and turned up the volume, letting the lyrics perforate walls I’d built up over a lifetime of being a cop.
With its lines about being in too deep, with no one to help and no way out, the song melded with my thoughts about a young girl I’d never met, a girl thrown from a motel window, a girl beaten and raped, who needed help. She was here, in my city, alone and scared, and I didn’t protect her—we didn’t protect her. But Jenni tried. Was that why they killed her?
I parked beside City Hall and cranked the volume up, my head sinking back into my headrest, my eyes closed to the tears that tried to escape. I let the song rip into me, but I felt no absolution. When the song was over, I turned the stereo off and gave myself a moment to ease back into my cop face before texting Niki that I had arrived.
Niki came out through the front door of City Hall, jogged to the end of the block where I parked, and jumped into the passenger side of my car. I drove away, meandering through the empty streets of downtown.
“What’s with the cloak-and-dagger?” I said.
“Lieutenant Briggs is in the office. He’s been hovering around my desk for the past half hour.”
“Maybe he’s finally worked up the courage to ask you out.”
“I’ve got a gun, Max.”
“I mean you’re a young, desirable woman—”
“I will shoot you.”
“Sure he’s a bit doughy, but, who knows, maybe the third marriage will be the charm.”
“You’re an asshole, you know that?”
“I’ve heard rumors.”
“I think he was trying to listen in on my phone calls. He actually came into the cubicle and asked me what I was up to. He leaned against your desk and wanted to chat like we were old friends.”
“He doesn’t work a holiday unless he’s trying to impress someone.”
“Or he thinks there’s an advantage to his game. Think about it, Max.”
“Orton?”
“Deputy chief of staff to the mayor.”