Read Page 63

Kampa moved closer, stepping between me and Miller.

“I had dinner that Tuesday night at the Millers’.” He gave Miller a meaningful stare over his shoulder. “Remember?” Mr. and Mrs. Miller both nodded their heads, so I knew he must have been telling the truth. “Just before I left, I asked to use the phone. I called Rush. I called the Imposter.”Advertisement

“Why?” I said.

“To warn him. Dewey kept saying that he was going to kill him or have him killed because of Saranne. I couldn’t let that happen. I didn’t care about Rush, but Dewey and I have been friends for a long time, and I didn’t want to see him do anything foolish. So I warned Rush to get out of town.”

“You’re a good friend,” Miller said.

“Either that, or he’s protecting his investment, too,” I said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I ignored the question. Instead, I asked Kampa, “Did you arrange to meet Rush?”

“No,” he said. “I just told him that he was no longer welcome in Libbie and that he should leave.”

“What about the mall?”

“It didn’t come up. It was a short conversation.”

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I turned toward Miller. “That’s two versions. Want to make it three, turn it into a real Rashomon?”

“You heard the truth,” Miller said.

“Which time? You know what, it doesn’t matter. Why don’t we call the cops and let them sort it out.”

“McKenzie, you said you weren’t going to call the police,” Mrs. Miller said.

“I lied,” I said. “Why not? Everyone else is doing it.”

“Fine,” Miller said. “Call Chief Gustafson. See where that gets you.”

“I’m not going to call Gustafson. I’m going to call Big Joe Balk. I bet he asks if this has anything to do with the murders of Tracie Blake and Mike Randisi.”

From the expression on the big man’s face, he didn’t like that idea at all. Another reason to give the sheriff some respect, my inner voice told me.

“I’ve had enough of you,” Miller said. He used a big, beefy arm to nudge Kampa aside and moved close to me, a bully trying to use his size to intimidate. “You’re getting out of town. You’re getting out of town now.”

“You remind me of Church. Remember what happened to him?”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

Miller shoved hard enough against my chest to force me to take a couple of backward steps. I was surprised a man his age was that strong; it made me think that Michelle Miller’s plan to wait for his demise was not all that sound.

“Do you think I’m afraid of you?” Miller asked.

He pushed again, and again I had to give ground. He followed close behind.

“Don’t do that,” I said.

“Get out of town.”

Miller leaned on me a third time. I retreated a few steps to maintain my balance.

“Don’t do that,” I said. “I’m serious.”

“No, I’m serious. I’ve had it with you, city boy.”

Miller brought both hands up and lunged toward my face. This time I caught his left hand between both of my hands, his knuckles between my palms, my fingers interlocked. I squeezed hard and lifted the hand high in the air while keeping the knuckles pressed together. I pushed his hand back as I pulled his arm down. The big man came down with it, falling to his knees in front of me. He shouted, “Let me go,” as I applied more pressure. It would have been easy to crumple his aging fingers, to snap his wrist.

“I do believe you need anger management therapy,” I said. I squeezed his knuckles and bent his hand farther back, making him cry out in pain some more. “Get used to the idea—I’m not going anywhere until I find out what happened to the Imposter and all that money. In the meantime…” I leaned in close and hissed in his ear. “Say anything that you want, to me or about me, I don’t care. But you lay hands on me again, they’ll need tweezers to put you back together, I don’t give a damn how old you are.”

I released his hand. He cradled it with the other and tried to massage the pain away.

“We’re having some fun now, aren’t we, kids?” I said.

Neither the Millers nor Jon Kampa seemed to agree with me. I can’t say I blamed them. I didn’t mind hurting Miller—it wasn’t long ago that he had me Tasered, kidnapped, and locked in the trunk of a car, remember? On the other hand, I had accomplished nothing except to identify a couple more liars in a town that seemed loaded with them. Worse, I was no closer to finding the Imposter than when I started.

“This is getting us nowhere,” I said.

I left them there, crossing the concrete slab back to my car. Not for the first time, I wondered what the hell I was doing in Libbie, SD. pqdm.com