woke quietly. There were few vehicles on First Street and even fewer people, who all seemed to move on tiptoes as if they were afraid of disturbing the peace. For a moment, I flashed on the old SF movie Invasion of the Body Snatchers . Show emotion and you die. I quickly shook the image from my head.
“Get a grip, McKenzie,” I said aloud.
I decided to go for a walk. Usually I run in the morning, only this was more a journey of exploration than exercise. After putting myself together, I hurried down the three flights of steps and out the front entrance of the Pioneer. I hung a left and followed First, my back to the sun. On the other side of the hotel’s driveway, there was a shop that sold collectibles. It was next to a store that sold discount items—damned if I could tell the difference between the two. There was an American Family Insurance office and an H&R Block office with an alley between them that didn’t seem to lead anywhere. Farther down the street was the Munoz Emporium I had visited on Monday, and next to that was a senior center. The senior center was actually open, but it wasn’t a place I wanted to visit, so I kept moving.
I followed First Street until I reached a sprawling grain elevator located at the western edge of the town. The name Miller was painted in black across a row of corrugated steel bins and on a sign over an office building in front of them. Beyond the elevator, there were green-brown fields that seemed to stretch to the horizon. It was an impressive vista, just not something that could hold my attention for long. I preferred people in my landscapes.
I scanned the gravel parking lot. There were several cars, SUVs, and pickups but no drivers. I was about to walk away when a door marked authorized personnel only opened and Church stepped out. He was limping slightly, and his right hand was encased in a plaster cast except for his fingertips. He stopped, slipped a cigarette between his lips, and lit it with a disposable lighter. That’s when he saw me. I gave him what Victoria Dunston called a microwave—holding my hand up and moving my fingers a fraction of an inch. He abruptly turned for the door. He slipped on his bad leg, and I thought he would go down until he managed to catch the door handle and steady himself. He gave me a hard look, spit the cigarette onto the gravel, and stepped back inside the office, pulling the door shut behind him. Chief Gustafson’s words floated back to me. Church is one of those guys who likes to plot his own revenge, so be careful .
I kept walking, heading north, until I discovered a set of railroad tracks that served the elevator. The tracks seemed to divide Libbie in half between north and south, and I wondered which side was the wrong side. There’s always a wrong side of the tracks.
After I crossed the tracks, I came upon a cemetery large enough to need three entrances. A block of large, well-kept houses bordered the cemetery, and I followed the sidewalk until I came across a man digging a grave, using a small, rubber-tracked excavator with a backfill blade on the front. I stopped to watch as he scooped out the dirt and deposited it into a bucket attached to the back of the machine. The gravedigger gave me a wave, and I waved back. There was something surreal about it all, and it made me think of the hours I’d spent in the trunk of the kidnappers’ car. There had been a few moments when I thought … Never mind what you thought , my inner voice told me. I turned and followed the road north.
The road ended where the cemetery ended, and I went east. There were more homes, some of them quite ambitious, a small park with playground equipment, and a high school surrounded by a football field, tennis courts, a baseball diamond, and a parking lot. The school building couldn’t have been more than a dozen years old. As near as I could tell, it was closed for the summer, and I wondered, if you were a teacher in Libbie, South Dakota, what did you do
“Get a grip, McKenzie,” I said aloud.
I decided to go for a walk. Usually I run in the morning, only this was more a journey of exploration than exercise. After putting myself together, I hurried down the three flights of steps and out the front entrance of the Pioneer. I hung a left and followed First, my back to the sun. On the other side of the hotel’s driveway, there was a shop that sold collectibles. It was next to a store that sold discount items—damned if I could tell the difference between the two. There was an American Family Insurance office and an H&R Block office with an alley between them that didn’t seem to lead anywhere. Farther down the street was the Munoz Emporium I had visited on Monday, and next to that was a senior center. The senior center was actually open, but it wasn’t a place I wanted to visit, so I kept moving.
I followed First Street until I reached a sprawling grain elevator located at the western edge of the town. The name Miller was painted in black across a row of corrugated steel bins and on a sign over an office building in front of them. Beyond the elevator, there were green-brown fields that seemed to stretch to the horizon. It was an impressive vista, just not something that could hold my attention for long. I preferred people in my landscapes.
I scanned the gravel parking lot. There were several cars, SUVs, and pickups but no drivers. I was about to walk away when a door marked authorized personnel only opened and Church stepped out. He was limping slightly, and his right hand was encased in a plaster cast except for his fingertips. He stopped, slipped a cigarette between his lips, and lit it with a disposable lighter. That’s when he saw me. I gave him what Victoria Dunston called a microwave—holding my hand up and moving my fingers a fraction of an inch. He abruptly turned for the door. He slipped on his bad leg, and I thought he would go down until he managed to catch the door handle and steady himself. He gave me a hard look, spit the cigarette onto the gravel, and stepped back inside the office, pulling the door shut behind him. Chief Gustafson’s words floated back to me. Church is one of those guys who likes to plot his own revenge, so be careful .
I kept walking, heading north, until I discovered a set of railroad tracks that served the elevator. The tracks seemed to divide Libbie in half between north and south, and I wondered which side was the wrong side. There’s always a wrong side of the tracks.
After I crossed the tracks, I came upon a cemetery large enough to need three entrances. A block of large, well-kept houses bordered the cemetery, and I followed the sidewalk until I came across a man digging a grave, using a small, rubber-tracked excavator with a backfill blade on the front. I stopped to watch as he scooped out the dirt and deposited it into a bucket attached to the back of the machine. The gravedigger gave me a wave, and I waved back. There was something surreal about it all, and it made me think of the hours I’d spent in the trunk of the kidnappers’ car. There had been a few moments when I thought … Never mind what you thought , my inner voice told me. I turned and followed the road north.
The road ended where the cemetery ended, and I went east. There were more homes, some of them quite ambitious, a small park with playground equipment, and a high school surrounded by a football field, tennis courts, a baseball diamond, and a parking lot. The school building couldn’t have been more than a dozen years old. As near as I could tell, it was closed for the summer, and I wondered, if you were a teacher in Libbie, South Dakota, what did you do
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