Madman on a Drum (Mac McKenzie #5)

Madman on a Drum (Mac McKenzie #5) Page 68

This makes three, I told myself. Three times I’d been forced to run for my life on the same day. It was getting tiresome. I thought about screaming for help, see if I could rouse a neighbor to action. Only I had caused a ruckus two years ago when I shot a guy off my front porch, and many of my neighbors had signed a petition asking me to move. I really didn’t want to get them involved. Not to worry, I told myself. This time I had a plan. I wasn’t running from, I was running to.

I raced along Hoyt, north up Coffman Street, across Folwell, and over someone’s sprawling lawn. All the homes in this area belonged to the University Grove Association. Each was unique, designed by committee-approved architects to house bigwigs from the University of Minnesota—professors, administrators, regents—including at one time famed football coach Bernie Bierman. Behind the houses was a rocky and heavily wooded ravine that stretched all the way from the water culvert under Cleveland Avenue to the Lauderdale Nature Preserve. It was quite narrow; at one time it had been a streetcar line, and you could still see abandoned railroad ties and a concrete platform with steps leading to it. Yet it gave homeowners the illusion that they were living on the edge of a wilderness. It was there that I decided to make my stand.

The felon was gaining on me when I plunged over the edge of the ravine—I couldn’t believe he was in better shape than I was. I tripped over something and tumbled headfirst over jagged stones, tree roots, and brush. I recognized them solely by the way they tore up my body; I couldn’t see a thing. I came to an abrupt halt at the bottom of the gully, stretched across a hard-packed walking path. I waited for a moment to catch my breath and shake my head to get the chimes to stop; I might even have moaned once or twice. At the rim of the ravine I heard the felon. I couldn’t see him, yet I knew he was being more cautious than I had been, easing himself into the ravine, moving slowly. Of course, he could afford to be cautious. He had the gun.

I went to my knees, still trying to control my breathing. It took about thirty seconds to gain my night eyes; shapes and shadows began to fill in. For the first time I noticed that the moon was full. The crazies always came out during a full moon. Crazies and werewolves. I rubbed my hands together. My fingernails weren’t growing and hair wasn’t sprouting from my knuckles, so I concluded I must be one of the former.

Beyond the ravine were the University of Minnesota intramural soccer fields, and next to that was a complex of well-lit condos. To make a run for either would be like carrying a neon sign on my back that said FIRE AT WILL. I gained my feet and scampered forward along the worn footpath, dodging rocks and low-hanging tree branches. I knew I couldn’t remain on the path for long; footsteps on loose rocks told me the felon was close. I searched for a place to hide. There were several trees and high bushes off to my right that cast a shadow darker than the night that surrounded me. I crawled into it.

The felon had moved to the bottom of the ravine. Moonlight flickered off his clothing, his gun, his hands, his pale face, and I was able to follow his progress. He paused when he reached the narrow footpath and searched the ground all around him. He went a few steps in one direction, a few in another, while listening hard. Long moments passed. He picked up a large stone and threw it far to the left of me. It made a crashing sound as it hit the wall of the gully and rolled against a tree. The felon pointed his gun with both hands toward the noise, yet only silence followed. He turned slowly, moving the gun in an arc in front of him. He seemed to hesitate when he spied the trees and high bushes. He peered deep into the shadow where I was hidden.

I had hunted with my father when I was a kid—pheasant on farmland near the Iowa border, grouse and deer up north. He would talk about the animals’ natural camouflage. The trick, he said, was to make them move. You could look right at an animal without seeing it, unless it moved. The felon was looking at me now. I didn’t move, and he didn’t see me.

The felon hesitated, then began creeping in the opposite direction. Each step took him farther away from me. Five yards, ten, fifteen, twenty. He halted, brought his gun up, and aimed at something in the darkness. “McKenzie,” he hissed. I crouched low against my tree, reaching out to maintain my balance. My fingers closed around a thick tree branch. I picked it up and determined that it was about two feet long. At the same time, the felon straightened up, letting his gun rest against his thigh. He turned and began following the path toward me.

He was moving casually now. I didn’t know if he was continuing the chase or searching for a way out of the ravine. He stopped, stared at something, and continued walking. He stopped again when he reached my hiding place. Again he seemed to look straight at me. My fingers tightened on the tree branch. He kept walking, but only a few steps before he halted. He brought his gun up, aimed, and then lowered his gun.

“McKenzie,” he shouted.

A desperate move, I thought. Did he really expect me to answer?

“McKenzie?”

Well, why not?

I stepped out of the shadow and moved to within striking distance.