Virgil fought his way out to I-94 and sped east toward St. Paul as Trane, who tried to talk to somebody at St. Thomas, wound up shouting, “So I’ll have the fuckin’ nine-one-one operator call you. Jesus, this is . . .”
She hung up, called 911, identified herself, explained the situation, and gave the operator the number for the woman she had spoken to at St. Thomas. The operator said she’d call back after she talked with St. Thomas.
Virgil was trying to drive fast and thumb-dial his car phone, got it done, talked to the BCA duty officer. “Call the Faribault cops and have them check the house of one Connie Krause. If she’s home, check to see if her son has her car and, if so, the make, model, and license. This is an emergency. We need the information as fast as we can get it.”
Virgil got stuck behind a pair of cars pacing each other side by side at exactly fifty-five miles an hour. He got the truck’s bumper a foot behind the Prius’s in the fast lane and laid on the horn in case the idiot didn’t hear the siren or see the flashing lights, and the Prius reluctantly sped up and moved over, and Virgil hammered on by, and Trane, clutching her phone, said, “I’ve never driven a hundred and ten down I-94 in the middle of the Cities . . . Kinda pretty, the way all the lights blur.”
“Where in the hell is nine-one-one? Where in the hell . . .”
He blew past a five-liter Mustang.
Nothing but silence from their phones until Virgil’s buzzed, as he turned north on I-35E in St. Paul, and the BCA phone came up, and the tech said, “I’ve got your girl, but she’s not in White Bear Lake. She’s moving, she’s on Highway 61 going south from White Bear toward 694. She could be with Krause, but I think she’s ahead of him.”
“Stay on her. We’re just north of 94, heading north on 35E, and we should run into her if she keeps coming south.”
“Yeah, she’s coming up to the intersection of 61 and 694. If she heads your way . . .” A minute later, the tech said, “No, she’s turned east on 694. She’s going away from you. She moving pretty fast . . . Got a heavy foot.”
Trane’s phone buzzed, and the 911 operator came up. “Quill’s mother’s name is Trixie Hahn. I have her home and cell phone numbers.”
Trane called Hahn’s cell phone. She answered after a few seconds, and Trane identified herself, and said, “We’re trying to find Megan. We think she might be in danger. Do you know where she’s going?”
Hahn, sounding frightened: “She’s meeting a friend at the Maplewood Mall. What happened? Why—”
“We think a man who she believes is a friend might pose a danger. We’re tracking her phone, though it’s turned off. We can see her going east on 694.”
“Yes! She’s going to the mall. The Maplewood Mall. She’s meeting Kaitlin Chambers there, Kaitlin’s a friend from way back in kindergarten.”
“She’s driving your car?”
“Yes.”
“Give me a description, please.”
“It’s a one-year-old green Subaru Forester, sort of a moss green . . . Wait a minute, I’ve got the insurance paper, I can get you a license number.”
Hahn went away from the phone for a moment, and Virgil asked Trane, “I know where the mall is, but how far do you think we’re behind her?”
“Six or eight minutes . . . We’re probably ten minutes from the mall. Maybe. Shoot, I don’t know, I’ve only been there, like, twice in my life.”
Hahn came back with the license plate number, and Trane thanked her and told her that she’d call back later when she had more information. She punched off Hahn’s call and dialed 911 again, and told the operator to contact the Maplewood police to find and stop the Subaru as it approached the mall or in the mall parking lot and to hold and secure Quill.
She called Hahn again. “Do you have a phone number for this Kaitlin, Megan’s friend?”
“No, no, I don’t.”
“Okay . . . We’ll check back.”
A few minutes later, Virgil rocketed through the intersection of I-35E with I-694, heading east, and Trane, who was now doing something with her phone’s map app, said, “We’re maybe three or four miles out. Take the White Bear Avenue exit. The mall’s right there.”
There was traffic, and while it did move aside, they were slowed down anyway. The four miles seemed like they took forever, a bit less than three minutes, before they came off the entrance ramp and charged across the intersection into the mall parking lot. As they did, they got a call from the 911 operator. “We’ve got Maplewood calling back. They’ve located Quill’s car in the west parking lot.”
“We’re coming into the west parking lot now,” Trane said. “Tell them to turn on their flashers.”
A few seconds later, the flashers popped on, and Virgil steered around the aisles of parking slots to the Maplewood police car, where a single cop was standing, and Virgil and Trane piled out of the truck.
Virgil: “Any sign of her?”
The cop shook his head. “No. I spotted the car pretty quick because the door was open. Her purse is inside.”
Trane: “Purse?” She turned to Virgil. “He’s got her. He grabbed her. He’s going to kill her.”
Virgil said, “He’s probably got his mother’s car. He doesn’t have one of his own.” To the cop, he said, “His mother is Connie, or maybe Constance, Krause, of Faribault.”
The Maplewood cop slid back inside his car, and, a moment later, said, “Okay, I got her. I’ll get the information out, we’ll get all the local departments and the patrol looking for it . . . A 2017 silver Chrysler.”
And as they stood there, Virgil took a call from the BCA duty officer, who said, “The Faribault cops checked with Mrs. Krause. Her car is parked outside her house.”
Virgil: “Damn! Damn! Now what?”
Trane was inside Quill’s car, backed out, and said, “Her phone is gone. She’s still got it.”
“What?” Virgil went back to the phone tech. “You still see Quill’s phone?”
“Yeah. You’re right on top of her. I mean, a few blocks. She’s not moving now.”
“Where? Where is she?”
“Go south on White Bear a couple blocks to Beam Avenue, take a left. There’s a park there. Let me see . . . Maplewood Heights Park—”
“We’re right there,” the Maplewood cop said. He hustled around his car, and shouted, “C’mon. Follow me!”
* * *