Convergence

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  I worked to keep my tone level. “I know you didn’t.”

  “Really? Did you share that news with your detective friend?”

  I bristled. “Keith”—I took a deep breath—“how is this my fault? I’m not sure what you want me to do about any of this. I’m frustrated. Actually, more than frustrated. I’m really hurt. I need your support through this, not your blame or anger. Can’t you see that I… need you? I need your help.” I wiped tears from my cheeks.

  He stared at me a moment, expression blank, and then he turned and walked back out to the garage, the door slamming behind him again.

  I stood stunned, not knowing what to do.

  But as it turned out, I didn’t have to do anything.

  He’d left.

  “Hey, Deni. That guy’s name is Bradley Mathison. M-a-t-h-i-s-o-n. I called a guy I knew in Three Rivers—he used to work for Mick. I remember seeing him with the guy a time or two. He said Mathison used to rent kayaks from Mick—never had one of his own. The guy hasn’t seen Mathison in several years but said he lived in the area at one time—grew up there. Hey, the guy told me something else too—something this guy claimed. When you have a few minutes, call me.”

  Ryan had called sometime after I got home and Keith left. But I’d missed the call. I listened to the voice mail again, this time writing down the name. Then I called Daniel Neibuhr and left him much the same message that Ryan had left me. I hoped I’d hear something back from him soon.

  My next inclination was to call Keith and tell him. Hope had surged with Ryan’s message, and I wanted to share it with Keith. But after all that had transpired, I didn’t think even a step toward resolution of this case would be welcome news.

  It was clear he wanted nothing to do with the case or the circumstances surrounding it.

  What had happened to the man I’d married? Or to the marriage itself? Even if Bradley Mathison was found and arrested, how could we mend the fissure between us? It grew wider by the day.

  How would we ever traverse that canyon? We’d both have to agree to do a lot of work—work I wasn’t certain Keith would choose to do. How had my life crumbled so quickly?

  I rambled through the empty house, finally standing for a long time in front of the open refrigerator, knowing I should eat something, but nothing appealed. In fact, food seemed to repel me. When my phone rang, I grabbed it, hoping it was Keith. But instead, it was Ryan calling again.

  I decided I might as well talk to him and see what other information he’d garnered. “Hi there. I got your message. Thank you.”

  “Yeah. Let’s hope they find him and put an end to this, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I wanted to tell you something else the guy I talked to mentioned. Do you have a minute?”

  I pulled out one of the barstools and settled there. “I have more than a minute.”

  “Are you okay? You sound beat.”

  I swallowed the ache in my throat. “Yes, I’m okay. Thanks for asking. This is all just… taking a toll.”

  “I can imagine. I’m sorry. How’s Keith handling it?”

  “I… don’t really know. You’d have to ask him.”

  Ryan was silent a moment. “Is he home? There with you?”

  I hesitated. “No, not right now.”

  “Are you comfortable alone? If you want someone there, I can come over.”

  I looked around the empty house and at the darkness beyond the windows. He, Bradley Mathison, could be out there right now, watching the house, watching me. “I’m okay, but thank you.”

  “Deni, this is me. I know you, remember?”

  “I know you do. I appreciate the offer, really. This is wearing, but… I’ll get through it.” I knew I needed to keep the conversation on track for both our sakes. I couldn’t let my vulnerability lead me somewhere I couldn’t go. Didn’t want to go. “So, what did you find out?”

  “Yeah… So, I guess Bradley Mathison used to brag about his relationship with Adelia—made a big deal about seeing her and taking her out behind my back.”

  “What?”

  “C’mon, you must’ve known. I knew she cheated on me.”

  His tone, his words, chilled me.

  “Ryan, you’re not serious. Adelia would never have—”

  “You don’t have to protect her anymore.”

  “Protect her? I’m not protecting her. She wasn’t unfaithful. Mathison is delusional. He’s mentally ill. Isn’t he proving that now? When I saw him in the grocery store, he couldn’t understand why I wasn’t wearing the bracelet he’d sent me. Think about that… Bragging to anyone about a relationship he wasn’t actually involved in sounds like an erotomanic delusion. He likely thought Adelia was in love with him. He may think I’m in love with him. He isn’t healthy, Ryan.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “There’s no maybe about it. Listen, as I said, I’m a little worn, frazzled, by all of this. I don’t mean to sound unsympathetic, but I truly believe Adelia loved you and was faithful to you. If she wasn’t with you, she was with me or with Jay. There wasn’t anyone else.”

  “Yeah, okay.” I wasn’t sure he was convinced. “Hey, I called to offer you support, not the other way around. Sorry I went off. You know me—I get a little intense, right?”

  “On occasion, maybe. But it’s part of your charm.” My comment didn’t lighten his mood as I’d hoped.

  “Sure it is. Listen, I’ll let you go. I assume you’ve reported the guy’s name?”

  “I did. I hope to hear back from one of the detectives soon.”

  “Okay, let me know what you find out. You know I’m here if you need me.”

  “I know. Thanks.”

  After the call with Ryan, I got up and walked around the house to check each of the doors again to make sure they were locked. I paused at the front door. Was he out there? I turned away and walked back to the kitchen, stopping on my way to set the alarm. I couldn’t let myself dwell on the “what ifs.” Detective Neibuhr assured me they’d have a car patrolling our neighborhood.

  As I set the teapot to boil for what had become my nightly cup of chamomile tea, something occurred to me. I went back to the island where I’d left my phone and called Daniel Neibuhr again. When I didn’t reach him, I left a second voice mail.

  “Hi Dan, now that I know who sent the bracelet and charms, and know a little more about his background, I think it’s possible he, Bradley Mathison, knew Keith was in Seattle when he sent that last charm. I have reason to believe he may have set out to frame Keith. Give me a call when you have a minute, and I’ll explain. Thank you.”

  It seemed plausible that Mathison might have tried to frame Keith to get him out of the picture so he could—I shuddered at the thought—have me to himself. Or maybe he thought he was helping me in some way by framing Keith. Either explanation could fit within the context of an erotomanic delusion, I reasoned. While it may sound far-fetched to those not familiar with erotomania, the mention of the name John Hinkley Jr.—the man who shot President Ronald Regan in order to impress an actress, Jodie Foster—helped people understand the lengths someone might go in the midst of such a delusion. My theory seemed worth sharing with those working my case.

  After the teapot whistled, I poured the boiling water over a tea bag in a mug. Then I picked up my phone again.

  This time I called Keith.

  But there was no answer.

  Close to midnight, when Keith still hadn’t come home, I texted him: GOING TO BED. THE ALARM IS SET. DON’T FORGET TO ENTER THE CODE WHEN YOU GET HOME.

  Would he come home? I couldn’t imagine him staying out all night without letting me know. But then, I couldn’t have imagined his behavior the last few weeks either.

  After I readied myself for bed, I climbed between the sheets and pulled the blankets over me. I lay there for several minutes listening to the sounds of the house—the refrigerator running in the kitchen, the ice maker dropping cubes in the freezer, the roof creaking. Outside a gusting wi
nd blew.

  Never had I felt so alone.

  I reached over and turned off the lamp on the nightstand. I rolled over, praying sleep would come yet certain it wouldn’t.

  Where was Keith? Lord, please protect him. Help him…

  I tossed and turned until it was clear sleep would indeed elude me. I sat up and reached for the bedside lamp again. Maybe reading would make me sleepy. But just as I was about to turn the lamp on, I heard a car on the street below. I got up and pulled the drape back from the window by our bed in time to see a police cruiser pass under the streetlamp just beyond our house. I watched as the car slowly made its way up the street.

  They were watching, I assumed, for the man who’d terrorized me.

  The man who’d turned my life inside out.

  I woke the next morning, groggy after finally falling into a deep sleep sometime in the early morning hours. When I rolled over, I saw that Keith’s side of the bed was empty. Was he traveling? No, that wasn’t it. A weight in my chest reminded me that something was wrong, but the details were lost in the haze of slumber. I sat up and looked around our bedroom. As I did, the memory of Keith’s anger the night before returned, and with it came a wave of nausea.

  How could this be happening?

  Had he really stayed out all night?

  I climbed out of bed, pulled on my bathrobe, and peeked into our guest room, hoping I’d find Keith asleep there, but it was empty. Instead, I found him, still dressed in what were now rumpled clothes, curled under a throw on the sofa in the family room.

  He stirred when he heard me. “Hey,” he mumbled.

  “What are you doing down here?”

  “I didn’t want to wake you when I got home.” He pushed the throw back and sat up. “I’m an idiot. I’m sorry.” His voice was still thick with sleep.

  I went to the sofa and sat next to him. As I leaned into him, he pulled away. “Deni…”

  I pulled back and looked at him.

  He ran his hand through his mussed hair. “Listen, I heard what you said last night, and I get it, but I don’t know if I can… give you what you need. I know this isn’t your fault. But it’s just”—he shook his head—“it’s just a lot. I’m a happy-go-lucky guy, you know that. I can’t…” He shrugged.

  “What are you saying?”

  He got up and walked into the kitchen and grabbed the coffeepot and filled it with water. Then he turned back and looked at me. “I don’t know what I’m saying, except that I know this isn’t your fault. And I know I can’t be what you need. You deserve more, but I don’t have more to give you. Maybe it’s a character flaw or immaturity or… I don’t know what. But I can’t do this.”

  “I can’t change what’s happening, so where does that leave us?”

  “I don’t know.” He turned around, opened the canister where we kept coffee, and added several tablespoonsful to the maker, then set it to brew. When he turned back, a look of resolution etched his features. “I love you, but…” His broad chest rose and fell with the breath he took. “I feel trapped. I thought I was ready for marriage, but I was wrong.”

  “Wrong?” I whispered. “What do you mean?”

  “Listen, I need some time… apart. I need to just take some time. I need to figure out what I mean. This isn’t your fault—it’s me. I just have to do this. I’m sorry.” He turned away and headed for the stairs.

  “Keith, wait…”

  He paused at the bottom of the stairs.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m leaving. I’m going to go stay with a buddy, or… I don’t know. I’m just going.” He turned back and went up the stairs.

  I sat on the sofa trying to assimilate what had just happened—what he’d just said. He couldn’t mean it, could he? He couldn’t be serious. Bile rose in my throat. I got up from the sofa and dashed to the downstairs powder bath, where I leaned over the toilet and heaved, my stomach, like my life, turning inside out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Adelia

  May 10, 2017

  Wednesday morning, before leaving to unlock the property and give the safety spiel to rafters, I make the call at the designated time to exchange information. We don’t dare meet in person—this town is too small for us to go unnoticed together.

  “Anything I need to know?” I ask him.

  “Just stick with the plan. At this point, nothing has changed.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Not here yet. But he’ll come.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Hey, this was your idea, remember?”

  I hesitate. “I remember. Okay, listen, I’m going on a night run tonight with some of the guides.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  “No. It’s too dangerous. Too big a risk right now. If we lose you, we never get him. You know that.”

  “And if I’m not ready by this time next month?”

  He’s silent, then I hear him blow air through his teeth. “You can do this?”

  “I have done it, I can do it, and I will do it. Another run will ensure that all goes well when it’s necessary.”

  “Remember why you’re here. Remember your motivation.”

  “I never forget. I think about him every day, every minute of every day.”

  “Okay. Be smart. Check with me in the morning so I know you’re still alive.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I’m serious. Call me.”

  He ends the call before I agree.

  From the beginning, this plan was all or nothing, black or white. It will either work or fail. There are no in-betweens. It’s a risk I’m willing to take. “It is a risk I am willing to take.” I speak the words aloud, needing to hear them for myself. And I will speak them as many times as necessary.

  Is the risk wise? Whether I live or die, the risk facilitates the safety of those I love.

  “It is a risk I am willing to take,” I whisper again.

  Then I grab my backpack and head out the door to Ride the Kaweah, where Mick’s mood, whatever it is this morning, will greet me. The moods he reserves for me alone, I understand now.

  The moon, straight overhead now, illuminates the raft as we climb in. Chase has planted himself to hold the raft, and Daphne pushes past me to get in before me.

  It was clear and is clear that inviting me wasn’t her idea. I suspect she’s enjoyed her status as the only female who keeps up with these guys. She can have her status. I’m not interested in fitting in or being accepted. Those days passed long ago. I have just one purpose here, and that’s to test and refine my skills.

  I take my place, tighten my PFD, and grab the paddle one of the other guys hands me. We put in just above the Gateway Rapid so we’re sure of a chaotic and strenuous beginning to our adventure, but one we’re accustomed to, I remind myself. I used to make this run at least once a day, five or six days a week. And I’ve done it several times since arriving back here less than a week ago. Of course those trips were made in daylight.

  But tonight isn’t any different.

  “Keep the line!” Chase yells above the roar of the rapids. We position our paddles and then dig in, directing the raft down the familiar line where the water funnels through a series of boulders.

  “Line!” Chase yells again.

  We work as a team. Whatever Daphne felt about my presence here doesn’t matter now. We’re a crew.

  “Forward, forward!”

  We each paddle, fast and hard, working both with and against the river.

  “Stop!”

  As one, we lift the paddles from the water.

  The boulder strewn slalom of Gateway Rapid, a bucking bronco, lurches beneath us. As we approach the bottom of the rapid, the back end of the raft kicks out.

  “Back, back-paddle!” Chase yells.

  Before I can do anything to help myself, I’m plunged into the torrent. No time to think or act, the construction of the PFD does its job and flips me to my back and brings
me to the surface like a buoy. On my back, I do what comes naturally after so many trips down rivers. I pull myself into a sitting position in the water, let my feet float to the surface, and then I straighten my legs a little but not too much, as I may need them to act as shock absorbers. Then I make sure my toes are out of the water.

  But before I can look to find the raft, I realize I’m turning in circles. Swirling. Twirling. And just as the strong arm of the river grabs me and pulls me under, I suck in a gulp of air and close my mouth.

  I hold my breath.

  And hold it.

  I open my eyes but can see nothing but the soupy complete blackness. Nothingness.

  And hold it.

  My body spins, and I try to swim out of the powerful hydraulic, but it doesn’t feel as if I make any progress. I flail and fight against the river.

  And hold it.

  My lungs burn, and I’m not sure if the dizzying sense is from the circular motion of the water or from a lack of oxygen.

  Oh God, help me. Help…

  How long have I been under? Seconds? Minutes? I flail again, trying to loose myself from the river’s grip. But it’s too strong.

  My lungs ache, burn. There’s no hope. I will die here. The river will take me, as it’s taken so many others. Oh Lord…

  I have nothing left, no fight left.

  My head throbs.

  Work with the river. Work with it.

  Work with it? Work with it. The river, my ally…

  I stop fighting and instead fumble for the clasps on the vest of the PFD. With fingers numbed from the icy water, each clasp is needles in my fingers, but I work to undo them anyway.

  Hope offers a burst of energy, and I struggle out of the vest.

  I have no way of knowing which way the bottom of the river is and which way the surface of the water is—I am lost, completely. At the mercy of the water.

  But then I remember, it doesn’t matter which way the surface is, or the bottom.

  Lungs on fire, I use the last of my strength to pull my knees to my chest. I wrap my arms around them, then release any remaining air in my lungs.