by Chris Seaton
“I did,” Cameron interjected, “several times. It keeps going to voice mail.” His face conveyed more concern than he was sharing.
Darlene took notice though and ran with it. “You don't think she went back to Tomah, do you? I know she was good and pissed about the whole jail thing.”
“What?” Agent Wyatt felt that familiar bad mood creeping up. “What jail thing, and what happened in Tomah?” The cop was back and demanded information.
Cameron shook his head. He smiled and wrapped his arm around Darlene's shoulders. “Hon,” he observed, “you are about as subtle as a freight train.”
Bernice didn't know why she kept checking her phone. No bars were no bars. She had already tried every nook, corner, and crevice she could shove her body into to get something that resembled a signal. Who knew a pole building would block reception so completely?
She guessed her captor did. As she sat there in the darkness utilizing one of the leather recliners, she mentally rewound her routes of the day. She tried to pinpoint where the tail found her but kept coming up empty. Maybe one of the cars she passed on the way to the house was it. Maybe checking on the storage unit had become a daily ritual since Herb had been discovered, and Bernice picked the wrong time to be snooping.
Either way, she was pretty much stuck. She had already looked for anything that could be used to break herself out. No luck. Apparently, the reluctant husband had been allowed to keep his tools. She tried kicking at the door and yelling for a while. That was useless. She also tried pulling the door up from the inside. Whatever was holding it shut was not giving.
So Bernicer waited and tried to guess the next move. She half hoped the accomplice would call the cops on her again. She'd gladly do time instead of the other less appealing alternatives, like dying of thirst or waiting for someone to come back better equipped to kill her and be done with it.
“You dumbshit.” She chided herself in defeat as the “would've, should've, could've's” danced like mocking little Umpa Lumpas in her head. “I should have told someone where I was going. I could have just called the cops when I found the tracks and let them handle it. Agent Wyatt would have helped me if I had bothered to ask him.”
“But noooo,” went the mocking voice, taking on the persona of a little purple man in the dark. For some reason he had Brock's face. She suddenly wondered what a psychiatrist would think of that. “You just had to rush headfirst into the thick of things and not take one moment to think about the consequences. You are a stubborn, nosy liar.” The purple man rhythmically kicked up a foot with each insult in a silent dance. “Admit it, Bernice, you are your own worst enemy.”
Her self-destructive rant was interrupted by tires driving close by. Bernice tensed up, terrified. “Shit! They're back!” Her mind went blank for a moment in its fright then the adrenaline kicked in.
“I'll be damned if I'm going down easy, motherfucker!” she cursed angrily in the dark. She turned her phone on long enough to locate the antler trophies. She quickly crawled over, found the easiest one to maneuver and worked it out of the pile. Now armed, she worked her way back to the front of the unit to await her foe and her fate.
For a few agonizing seconds all she heard was her own obnoxious heartbeat. It seemed to drown out everything else in her ears. She gripped the trophy in her clammy, white-knuckled claws. An ugly mask of hate was forming on her face as Bernice geared herself for a fight.
Then she heard the sounds; footsteps were coming, and someone was calling her name.
“Bernice!” It was a man. Crunch, crunch, crunch. “Bernice!”
She held her breath as the hate mask dissolved into complete shock. “That's Evan's voice! Holy Shit!”
“Bernice!”
She immediately re-purposed her weapon and used it to pound in quick hard succession against the damned door. “I'm here!” She shouted with the banging. “Aaaaahhh!”
“Okay, okay!” She finally heard Agent Wyatt yell back from the other side. “I hear you. You all right in there?”
“Yah, I'm fine. Just get that damn lock off and get me the hell out of here!” She hated the frantic girlishness in her voice but knew it couldn't be helped.
There was a pause on the other side of the door that was very unnerving. “This lock is gonna take some work.”
She didn't like the sound of that. It made her testy. “I don't give a damn if you have to blow this piece of shit open with a bazooka. I want out!”
There was another pause. “Is this your storage unit?”
She cursed to herself and let out a defeated breath. “No.”
“Oh, so you broke into this storage unit then?”
“I had a good reason!” she shouted back in defense.
“So does every other criminal I've ever encountered.”
“Do you see those tire tracks on your left? Do they look familiar?” Bernice fought with every fiber of her being to beat down the sarcasm creeping into her voice.
“Yeah,” Agent Wyatt responded, “but there's not a God damned thing I can do about them without a search warrant. And that would be rendered useless if this little escapade of yours causes that storage unit to become inadmissible evidence.” His practiced tone wore on her like an itchy sore.
She growled quietly. “If no one but you and the asshole who locked me in here knows about my indiscretion, then your precious search warrant would be fine. So get...me... out...please.”
She heard a resigned sigh on the other side followed by, “On one condition.”
“What?” Bernice asked with confidence even though she knew she had no choice.
“I expect to be rewarded for being your accessory to a crime.” She caught a hint of flirtation in his statement. At that moment it was the most beautiful sound in the world.
“Oh, I can make sure you are quite satisfied with your decision.” She did her best to flirt in her panic-ridden state.
“Uh uh, that would be too easy,” Agent Wyatt countered. “For this I'm upping the ante.”
“Like what?” Bernice asked, confused.
“Like a date,” Agent Wyatt answered simply.
She couldn't help but laugh. “A date, that's it? Why bother?”
“I mean it, Bernice,” he scolded. “I want a real, honest to God date. And you have to be on your best behavior. No brooding behind a menu, no picking at my choice of entree, no talking on your cell phone, and for Christ's sake, no shapeless t-shirts.”
“You're serious.” Her tone belied her bewilderment at the request.
“You bet your ass I'm serious. And you're going to wear a dress and makeup. I want the royal treatment. That is my condition for breaking you out instead of calling in backup and letting the shit hit the fan. Take it or leave it.”
Bernice smiled. A date with Agent Wyatt sounded so much better than a night in lockup. Still, she was herself after all. Couldn't give in too easily. “You know, we're going to end up having sex anyway...”
“Bernice,” he warned.
She sighed dramatically. “All right, but hurry up about it.” She put her borrowed antlers on the keg/coffee table and asked, “So what do you need to do? Get a cutting torch or something?”
As she finished her sentence, the door suddenly flew up, blinding her in painful surprise. When her squinting allowed her to see again, she gazed upon Agent Wyatt. He was standing in front of her with a very smug expression as he held up what looked like a misshapen coat hanger.
Bernice's look of utter astonishment was priceless. “You lied!” she exclaimed accusingly.
The smugness continued. “Well, we can discuss who the better liar is over dinner, Ms. Private Eye.” Agent Wyatt assessed her condition and cringed at her look of sweaty dishevelment. “But I think you might want to shower first.”
The glistening, batter-fried fish made a scrumptious and crispy noise when eaten. At least, that's what Agent Wyatt observed as he stood and watched Cameron and Darlene enjoy their meal while he waited patiently for Bernice to h
old up her end of the bargain.
Not that he wasn't offered a sample repeatedly. He was beginning to wonder if all the overt politeness would push him over the edge.
“One little piece isn't going to spoil your meal,” Darlene objected, holding up the platter practically in his face. “Cameron really is an excellent cook.”
Agent Wyatt held up his hand and denied himself for the umpteenth time. “I'm sure he is, but I don't want to disappoint Bernice. Thank you anyway.”
“So this place you're taking her, it's pretty nice?” Cameron applied dressing to his salad.
Agent Wyatt was going to answer, but Darlene beat him to the punch.
“Nice isn't the word for it. It's only the swankiest place in the county.” She gulped down some milk and continued, “Maybe in three counties; of course, it's not like in the Cities.” She smiled indulgently at Cameron who twisted his mouth into a knowing smirk.
Agent Wyatt suddenly felt exceedingly uncomfortable and looked up toward the staircase yet again, hoping in vain to catch a glimpse of Bernice. He was starting to get a sneaking suspicion that she was stalling. Maybe the slow torture of the fish was meant to wear him down. Fat chance.
Darlene killing him with kindness, however....
“I heard your friend, Judge Conner, dines there frequently with his wife and various other important people.” Darlene's eyes grew wide with a sudden realization. She gasped at the thought of it. “You two aren't going to be dining with the judge, are you?” She laid her hand on his unprotected arm and gazed up like a hungry wolf.
“Uh, no, I'm afraid not.”
“Well, what a shame,” Bernice exclaimed from the top of the stairs. “With enough cocktails I'm sure Bert and Eunice are just a riot.”
“Well, you sure took long enough-,” and then his brain stopped forming words for him. Agent Wyatt just stared. He remembered that prophetic sentence uttered by a tipsy Darlene a spare week ago, “Get her all cleaned up, and she's quite the looker.” Amen, Sister.
Bernice had despaired for the last half hour, agonizing over every piece of halfway decent clothing in her possession. It had taken her fifteen minutes just to retrain herself to use her hot rollers again. She had re-applied her eye makeup twice, trying to find the happy medium between “barely noticeable” and “cheap prostitute”. Hoping the evening didn't turn into an unmitigated disaster, she even took care to pick out pretty undergarments. As she approached the stairs, she silently asked herself if all the rigmarole was actually worth it.
Her question was answered in that stare.
She smiled at Agent Wyatt. The smile grew when she surprised herself with the new noise of her heels clicking on the stair treads. She hung on the banister to maintain her balance with this virgin experience.
When Bernice was within reach, Agent Wyatt caught the hand and guided her the rest of the way down.
It would have been a moment close to perfection, but not quite.
“Huh,” was Darlene's idea of a compliment. “I'm surprised you didn't go with the suit.” She tossed a piece of fish into her mouth and chewed as she contemplated her niece's decision.
Bernice looked down at her burgundy halter dress with the chocolate brown shawl on her arm and began to question her decision as well. “You think so?” she deferred to Darlene.
Darlene took on a rather knowledgeable air. “Well, it is a fancy place, and Agent Wyatt's wearing a suit.”
It wasn't unusual to see Agent Wyatt in a suit. But this was not state-mandated, polyester blue-on-blue. This was a gorgeous, charcoal sport-coat with a metallic silk shirt opened at the throat and black, fitting slacks. He had somehow managed to style his hair to hide the majority of his injury. The result had a rather rakish effect about it.
“I don't know, dear,” Darlene continued. “I might think about wearing something else.”
“No,” Agent Wyatt objected evenly. He hadn't removed his gaze from Bernice a single degree. “We have reservations,” he concluded with authority and walked to the screen door, opening it for her.
Bernice looked down at herself one last time and exhaled audibly. She turned back to the couple at the table. “Good night,” she said and started for the door.
“When you gonna be home?” Darlene threw out.
The indiscreet question caused Bernice to start feeling like her old self. “When I'm damn good and ready.” She winked at Cameron, who had the good sense to keep his opinions to himself. He winked back. “Good night,” she repeated and went out the door.
Out by the car and away from the scrutiny they both took a cleansing breath and laughed at each other. He held the car door for her.
Bernice looked down at her dress again. “Do you think I need to change?”
Agent Wyatt knew she was only talking about the outfit, but he automatically thought about the woman. His answer was delivered with utmost certainty. “Not for me.”
She peered at him queerly as she lowered herself into the passenger seat. He shut her door and grinned to himself as he made his way around the car.
Chapter 18
“Three years is a long time,” Bernice repeated in her head as she took in the moment. Huge plate glass windows lined the walls around their tastefully appointed table. Not only did they allow them an amazing view of the setting sun over the scrupulously landscaped grounds of the country club, they also reflected back the twinkles and flickers of an abundance of mood lighting and appropriately romantic candles.
Centered around it all was her handsome date. She took quiet amusement in the fact that, despite his appearance and their present location, he still perused the wine list in front of him like he was studying evidence in a case file.
“And the Napa Merlot?” Agent Wyatt inquired at length.
“Heavier than the Pino,” the waiter answered with as much enthusiasm as he could pull forth at that point.
Agent Wyatt made it to the end of the list and flipped back to the front again. Bernice picked up her water glass and looked back out the window to hide her smile from the waiter, whose eyes opened just a little wider with impatience.
Agent Wyatt turned the page, scanned the list once more and handed the booklet back to the waiter, stating, “We'll go with the Pino.”
“Excellent choice,” the waiter answered automatically. Bernice watched him march away in something akin to a swift power walk.
When she turned back, she found herself being scrutinized. She smiled at Agent Wyatt politely and went to take refuge behind her menu. She stopped herself when she remembered their bargain and set the menu back down, resorting to picking at the edge of it instead.
“For someone who used to make her living being watched, you don't look very comfortable.” His voice was low. She could almost feel his gaze radiating heat on her. It was very disconcerting.
“That was a quite a while ago,” Bernice remarked lamely and moved on to fidget with her cloth napkin.
“About as long since you've been in a place like this?”
“Yah,” she mumbled, placing her silverware next to her water glass.
She watched the hand reach across the table and cease her actions. Looking up, Bernice saw a tender expression she did not expect.
“Tell me about it,” Agent Wyatt requested softly.
The gesture was almost overwhelming. She felt the burning desire to hide and used her free hand to bashfully cover her mouth as she smiled and studied his features with a new fascination.
The waiter returned with their wine and bread. After he set the basket down he began his practiced rote of the evening and made the mandatory display of removing the cork from the bottle. “The specials this evening are-”
“We would like a few more minutes, please.” Agent Wyatt acknowledged the interruption with a polite but dismissive tone. He only took his eyes off of Bernice long enough to retrieve the bottle from the waiter and make himself clear with a crisp, “Thank you.” The waiter stood his ground in dismay for a single iota before marching
off. Bernice could just picture the cursing going on in his head.
Agent Wyatt squeezed her hand gently, bringing her back to his attention.
“Oh, right,” she corrected herself. “The last time was at the Landmark Center in St. Paul.” She held back her sigh of relief when he released her hand.
He poured their wine. “Now that's what I call swanky.”
She picked up a piece of bread. It was warm and crusty. She watched the steam pour out of it when she pulled it open. “Our senior producer was retiring, so the station put on a nice shindig for his sendoff.” Watching the butter melt on contact with the white tissue in the center of the bread, Bernice realized how long it had been since she ate. She carefully bit into it, chewing self-consciously.
Agent Wyatt gave her a reprieve and tore at his own bread, breaking it up into pieces on his diminutive plate. “So you were still with Brock, then?”
She sighed and twirled her wine glass. “We were still a couple then, but at those types of parties he was rarely with me. After we would eat, it was customary for us to go off to our separate camps.” She took a sip of wine and brightened at the tangy flavor.
He presented her with a wry grin. “I know this dance. Your partner would go butter up the Big Wigs, and you would hang out with the crew, right?”
Bernice watched him as she made rapid use of the remains of her yummy bread. “Uh hum,” she mumbled and wiped the butter up with her napkin. She swallowed and continued, “Except that usually didn't last.”
“Wait.” Agent Wyatt was quite animated in his excitement. Bernice was a bit taken off guard by his enthusiasm. “Let me guess. Brock would eventually come back to separate you from the herd because you just had to talk to so-and-so, and he'd been telling them all about you.”
After swallowing her wine, she impolitely laid her elbows on the table and studied him thoughtfully. “So you've heard this story before?”