Pretty Girl Gone

by David Housewright

  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.

  15

  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.”

  I was only a few miles north of Mankato when my cell phone played its melody. I fumbled for it in my pocket.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey, pal. Nice night for a drive.”

  “Schroeder?”

  “Yep.”

  “Where are you?”

  “On your bumper.”

  I glanced in my rearview mirror just as Schroeder flicked his high beams at me.

  “So, how are you doin’?” he asked.

  “I’ve been better.”

  “How’s the bullet hole?”

  “Not a hole. A scratch. Granted, it took eleven stitches to close it, but a scratch just the same.”

  “Uh-huh. The cops held you for a long time. Nearly twenty-four hours.”

  “They’re a thorough bunch.”

  “What happened?”

  “What’s the matter? Are you nervous, Greg?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Mallinger took the hint. Your name never came up. When her officers and the sheriff deputies finally arrived, she told them that she had shot Testen. She told them that she went to see Testen about a traffic accident involving me. She told them that she suspected that the accident might have been premeditated, that Testen had attempted to kill me, and that he might have killed Josie Bloom over a meth operation. She said she had no proof of these allegations beyond Gene Hugoson’s testimony, at least not until Testen shot her when she started asking questions. She said she went to see Testen alone at night because Testen was an important figure in Victoria and she wanted to spare him from gossip in case the allegations proved unfounded. Eventually, they put her under anesthesia and took the bullet out of her armpit. Even doped up she stuck to her story. By then it sounded more believable. CID found Coach Testen’s fingerprints all over Josie’s place. Apparently he thought they would never even bother to look.”

  “What about the girl?”

  “Elizabeth Rogers?”

  “That’s her name.”

  “I cornered Kevin Salisbury alone at the hospital. He’s a reporter for the Victoria Herald.”

  “I know him.”

  “Of course, you do. I told Salisbury that Coach Testen killed Elizabeth. I couldn’t supply him with a motive; I couldn’t tell him what happened in Josie Bloom’s basement—”

  “What did happen in Jose Bloom’s basement?”

  “Never mind. I did tell him that the ME found skin and blood under Elizabeth’s fingernails and that they match Testen’s O positive blood typ
e—God, they had better match—and that if he looked, Salisbury could see scratches on Testen’s face in the photographs taken at Elizabeth’s funeral. I also told him that Testen had probably kept a locket among his many souvenirs of the Seven’s victory. Salisbury took the information to the sheriff—made it sound like he was the one who figured it out—and convinced the sheriff to search Testen’s museum. Sure, enough, they found the locket at the bottom of one of the smaller trophies.”

  “Beautiful.”

  “So, you can tell your boss that come Sunday’s edition of the Victoria Herald he should be free and clear of that particular problem.”

  “My boss?”

  “The governor of the state of Minnesota. He hired you, didn’t he, Greg?”

  “Did he?”

  “The only question I have is, Did he hire you to make sure I solved the case or watch my back?”

  “Maybe both—if he hired me.”

  “The incidents on the skyway and in the parking lot, the telephone calls—the fifteen roses at Milepost Three. You arranged all that, didn’t you?”

  “I had to keep you interested, pal. You have to admit the roses were a nice touch.”

  “Very nice. Tell me something. Why didn’t he send you in the first place? Why did he pick me?”

  “The governor didn’t pick you. The first lady picked you, remember?”

  “Does he know why?”

  “Of course he knows why.”

  “Then he knows about Donovan.”

  “That’s my understanding.”

  “Why doesn’t he do something about it?”

  “He’d have to admit to his wife that he knows what happened, and he’s not prepared to do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “If he admits he knows about her infidelity, he’d have to do something about it and maybe he doesn’t want to do anything about it. Maybe he’s content with his marriage, warts and all. Maybe he hopes to avoid confrontation so he can repair the damage quietly and in his own time. Maybe, despite everything, he loves his wife and doesn’t want to lose her. This is all hypothetical, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Personally, I’d like to blow Donovan’s brains out, but the governor won’t have it.”