Blind Rage

by Terri Persons

  “Ask your brother to think about the files,” she said.

  “I’ll talk to him,” he said dully.

  As she watched him go down the sidewalk, she wondered if his unsteadiness was from the wind or the wine. The mink bumped shoulders with a hockey jersey going the opposite way on the sidewalk. It was the wine.

  She waited until he was a block away before she started to follow him.

  Chapter 26

  DEFTLY WEAVING THROUGH THE PEOPLE CROWDING THE DOWNTOWN sidewalks, Bernadette kept Matthew at a distance but within eyeshot. While she’d easily found a home address for Luke, she’d been stumped when trying to track down the younger brother’s residence. Did he live in his Jag?

  When he stepped onto the west side of the Wabasha Bridge and continued south over the river, she slowed her pace. There were few pedestrians on the bridge, and she didn’t want to risk being spotted by her quarry. The walk was ten feet wide, and the side bordering the road was dotted with fat concrete pedestals topped by streetlights. She hugged that side of the walk, moving from pedestal to pedestal. Burying her hands in her coat pockets, she felt the comforting outline of her gun tucked under all the clothing.

  About a third of the way across, Matthew stopped to look out over the river. Afraid he’d spot her, she stepped onto one of the overlooks that jutted out from the bridge like concrete balconies. The apron was surrounded by a cagelike structure that camouflaged her but still allowed her to keep him in her sights.

  While the river side of the walk was bordered by railing as high as Matthew’s shoulders, Bernadette was still nervous at seeing him lean against the bars and stare into the water. Nighttime on the river was always the most dangerous. The downtown lights became a string of pearls cast against black velvet, making the Mississippi appear deceptively safe and beautiful. Alluring. More than one person had jumped off that bridge at night on a stupid dare. Some were saved. Others died in the black water.

  She sidled next to one of the light poles that lined the overlook and continued to watch him. What was he doing there all by himself, half in the bag from four hundred dollars’ worth of wine? Was he frustrated he hadn’t charmed the FBI bitch into backing off? Were his thoughts even darker? Perhaps he was wondering what it would be like to drop into the river, sink to the bottom. She could almost understand that sort of fantasy.

  A frigid wind rolled down the deck of the bridge. A man and a woman, both dressed in jeans and flannel shirts with puffy down vests zipped up over them, hustled past Bernadette without giving her a glance. They wore matching Minnesota Wild stocking caps pulled over their heads. They’d been to the hockey game and parked on the outskirts of downtown to save money. As they moved past Matthew, they shot a quick look at his back. They were probably wondering what a guy in a mink coat was doing walking.

  Shivering, she pulled her gloves tighter over her fingers and told herself that she’d picked the wrong night to chase after someone out of curiosity. What would she do once he got home? Knock on his door?

  FINALLY, MATTHEW moved off the railing, buried his hands in his pockets, and resumed his walk. She hesitated, telling herself it would be more sensible to abandon this foolish hunt and go home. Her gut had other ideas.

  As she trailed him south on the bridge, she tried to guess where he was leading her. Anchoring the south end was Harriet Island, a groomed park directly across the river from downtown. It had picnic tables, a pavilion, and a playground. Tied up along its shoreline were a floating dinner theater, a floating restaurant, and massive paddleboats. To its west was Lilydale Regional Park, a long, narrow tangle of woods and marshes that ran along the river. The area immediately south of the parks was mostly commercial, with a gas station, a health clinic, office buildings, and assorted factories. Beyond that, overlooking downtown and the river, were bluffs dotted with trees. Atop the bluffs were homes. If that was where Matthew lived, she had a long hike ahead of her.

  After the bridge, however, he hooked to the right and jogged down a set of steps that led to Harriet Island. Strange, she thought. Even the homeless folks would avoid hanging out in that park on such a frigid night.

  There was a small parking area near the entrance to the island, and Bernadette figured Matthew was going there to collect his car. He passed the parking lot, however, and crossed the street to a chain-link fence that followed the banks of the river. He stopped at a gate in the middle of the fencing and dug into his coat pockets. He pulled a key out of his pocket and dropped it on the sidewalk. “Fuck!” he said, loud enough for her to hear. He bent over, retrieved the key, and inserted it in the gate’s lock. After some fiddling and more cursing, he pushed the gate open and stepped through. It clanged shut behind him.

  Leaving her hiding spot, Bernadette jogged over to the gate and hunkered behind some bushes planted on either side of it. There was enough light cast by the streetlamps for Bernadette to read the small signs posted on the gate. One read “Slips Available” and listed a phone number. The other read “St. Paul Yacht Club, Gate G, Lower Harbor, 100 Yacht Club Road.”

  Peeking through the bushes, she saw that behind the fence were steps leading down to the docks. Matthew was thumping along the wooden boards, heading for one of the few houseboats still tucked into the slips.

  During the summer months, the popular yacht club was crowded with watercraft. As the cold weather settled in, however, only a handful of winterized houseboats remained. Their owners, called “liveaboards,” resided there permanently. Was this his home or just his crash pad when he partied too hard downtown?

  She could see there were some luxurious year-round crafts—one floating mansion had to be more than sixty feet long—and some tiny boxes that appeared to be the equivalent of efficiency apartments. Every other one had interior lights on, and almost all of them had bright floodlights shining against their exteriors. It could have been a well-lit street on any block, except for the fact that the river was everyone’s backyard.

  Matthew stopped at a houseboat near the end of the dock. He’d left the boat’s interior lights on, as well as an outside floodlight mounted near the door. The cabin was about forty feet long and had modest decks at each end. The suburban rambler of the neighborhood. The craft’s flat top was railed and littered with lawn chairs. In the summer, sunbathing women probably populated that upper level. Matthew’s party palace.

  He dropped his keys while standing next to his boat. When he bent over to pick them up, his door popped open. Bernadette could see a long-haired woman standing in the doorway. Was her hair brown, like the woman she’d observed through her sight? Bernadette couldn’t tell. The woman was clothed in a short black nightgown, and the interior lights of the boat shined through the flimsy fabric, leaving little to the imagination. She had a glass in her hand.

  Bernadette strained to listen. The woman’s words were indecipherable, but Matthew bellowed loudly enough to be understood.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, standing up with his keys. “How in the hell did you get inside? I told you, we’re through!”

  The woman extended the drink to him.

  “You’re not staying. I’ve got commitments tonight. Places to go.”

  Like detox, thought Bernadette.

  Matthew snatched the glass out of the woman’s hand and stumbled inside the houseboat, the door slamming behind him.

  Bernadette stood up and tried yanking on the gate. Locked tight. The fence was about six feet tall. Not a big obstacle, but she wished she were in jeans and sneakers instead of a suit. Wedging the toes of her shoes through the chain link, she climbed to the top of the fence, threw her legs over, and jumped down. She was grateful she’d worn flats.

  There was a smaller houseboat moored next to Matthew’s. Even though its interior and exterior were unlighted, she could read its name by the light of the neighboring boats. Good Enuf, it said across the transom. It had a deck at each end, and neither one of them was railed. She hopped onto the closest, grimacing while the boat rocked and gro
aned. Dropping behind a large planter filled with dead flowers, she peered into Matthew’s lighted windows.

  Matthew and the woman were in the houseboat’s galley; Bernadette could see kitchen cupboards, granite counters, and a stainless-steel refrigerator. The place wasn’t huge, but it was outfitted beautifully. He was pacing back and forth with the glass the woman had given him, but he wasn’t drinking from it. Maybe Matthew finally figured out he’d had enough liquor for the night. He set the drink down and peeled off his fur and his blazer. The woman went up to him and twined her arms around his neck. Now Bernadette could clearly see her hair was brown. Was she the one Bernadette had watched in bed, getting the rough treatment during sex? Had Bernadette been seeing through Matthew’s eyes?

  He seemed in no mood to touch this woman, let alone hop into the sack with her. He pulled her arms down, turned his back to her, and marched to the other end of the boat. Bernadette followed, sliding down a narrow walkway that ran along the side of the Good Enuf. When she got to the far deck, she didn’t bother trying to hunker down; there was nothing to hide behind. Matthew’s craft was nearly twice the length of the Good Enuf, extending much farther into the river. Even posted at the very end of the shorter craft’s deck, Bernadette had trouble observing everything that was going on next door. She was gambling that the feuding couple couldn’t see her standing outside, especially with all the lights on inside their houseboat.

  Looking into the last window, Bernadette saw clothes flying. She spotted a corner of a headboard and figured she was spying into the master bedroom. More clothes sailed through the air. Was Matthew stripping? No. He was tossing the woman’s own garments at her. The woman stepped in front of the window and was catching each article as he hurled it. Black bra. Black panties. Black sweater. She likes black. Both of their mouths were moving like crazy. Bernadette wished she could hear what was being said, but the boat was too well insulated. At least that meant they couldn’t hear her thumping around on the neighbor’s deck.

  Matthew pivoted and tried to walk away from the woman, but she threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around him from behind and molding the front of her body against his back.

  “Have some pride, lady,” Bernadette muttered under her breath.

  Matthew pushed the woman’s arms off him and spun around. He grabbed her by the shoulders and held her at a distance while saying something to her. Surprisingly, his expression was calm. Patient. It was not the face of an out-of-control killer.

  The pair moved away from the window.

  “Dammit,” mumbled Bernadette, bobbing her head and shuffling along the end of the deck in an attempt to locate the couple. “Where are you?”

  They suddenly slid into view in a middle window positioned directly across from her. Nervous about being spotted, she dropped to her knees and sat back on her heels to watch. They were standing a foot or two apart, their mouths still going. While Matthew’s expression remained relaxed, the woman’s face was red and distorted with rage.

  Suddenly the woman rushed at Matthew, her arms raised. He caught her wrists and held them over her head. She pulled away from him and lunged again, her nails ripping his face. Looking up at his bloody face, Bernadette contemplated barging in to help. Then Matthew pushed the crazy woman off him again and she fell back against the windows. The crack made Bernadette start. Matthew could take care of himself.

  They moved out of view, with Matthew heading toward the far end of the houseboat. The woman was on his heels, her brown hair and her black nightgown flying behind her like a witch’s cape.

  Bernadette waited a minute to make sure they didn’t rematerialize in the window across from her, then stood up. She went to the very end of the deck and leaned over as far as she could to scan the bedroom window at the end of Matthew’s boat. No one popped into view. She looked back at the window directly across from her. Still nothing. She scaled the ledge to the other deck and studied the kitchen windows. No action there. They had to be in that bedroom, she thought, and skated back to the far deck.

  Standing on the end of the Good Enuf ’s deck, she locked her eyes on the window and waited. The lights stayed on, but nothing moved. All she saw was the corner of that headboard against a white wall. With each passing moment, the knot in her gut tightened. What if the crazy killed him? Bernadette wasn’t sure whether to go for her cell or her gun. Eyes glued to the bedroom window, she started to unbutton her trench coat when a creak behind her sent a rush of ice water shooting through her veins. She spun around and looked behind her. No one there. She darted from one corner of the small deck to the other, checking the ledges along the sides of the boat. Nothing. She reached past her blazer, put her hand on the butt of her gun, and waited. A loud groan vibrated the small boat. The Good Enuf was like an old house settling.

  Satisfied that no one was there, she took her hand out of her coat and turned around. The woman was standing in the bedroom window, staring out at the river, and slowly running a hand through her hair. The expression on her face was unsettling. It was flat. Blank. How could someone go from zero to ninety and back to zero that quickly? Where was Matthew? Bernadette didn’t like it and once again reached inside her trench coat. Her fingers landed on the butt of her gun, but she never had a chance to unsnap her holster or even look behind her.

  WINDING UP LIKE a batter, he brought the paddle around and slammed it against her back. The splash her body made as it hit the river gave him some satisfaction, but he was disappointed she hadn’t uttered a word. A scream would have been rewarding. Standing on the edge of the deck with the paddle still locked in his hands, he looked into the water with hopeful anticipation. If she resurfaced, he would push her back down. If it got real ugly, he might have to drop his weapon and use his hands to hold her under. Perhaps he’d have to go in himself. The water would be cold, but it would be worth it to get rid of her. She was going to ruin everything.

  The rumble of a car pulling into the yacht club’s parking lot made him glance nervously over his shoulder. He gave a last look to the smooth, black surface and told himself she was gone for good. Taking the paddle with him, he shuffled off the Good Enuf and went to the end of the dock. He cranked his arm back and flung his weapon into the water. The thing would be far downriver in no time. With any luck, so would her body.

  Chapter 27

  IT SEEMED TO TAKE FOREVER TO FIGHT HER WAY TO THE surface. When Bernadette finally bobbed up, she was gasping and coughing up putrid water. She didn’t holler for help; it took every bit of energy to stay afloat. Her back and her lungs ached. Splashing madly with her arms, she made no progress in any direction; all she did was tread the cold water. Her limbs were starting to lose sensation, and she forced herself to stop thrashing around. Kicking her legs like a frog, she did a sloppy breaststroke to the edge of the small houseboat. Panting and shivering, she hung on to the wood trim of the Good Enuf while trying to throw her right leg up onto the deck.

  “Hell,” she wheezed, her leg slipping off the edge and falling back into the water. Spasms of pain radiated across her back. Low to the river while she was standing on top of it, the deck now seemed insurmountably high. She felt as if she were trying to clamber up the sheer sides of a cruise ship. Something beneath the surface of the water brushed past her body, and she tried not to think about what it could be.

  When she got to the deck on the other end of the boat, her fingers bumped up against a narrow horizontal bar. She locked her fist over it and brought her other hand around to pull her body in front of the ladder. It took every ounce of her remaining energy to set her feet on the ladder and climb up one rung and then another. Her numb foot slipped on the third rung, and she nearly fell backward into the river. Slowly, she returned her foot to the third rung and stepped hard, propelling herself up and out of the water. The impact of her body against the boards sent another ripple of pain across her back.

  Dripping and cold, she stayed facedown on the Good Enuf. A wind blew across the deck, and she groaned into the wood.
Shivering uncontrollably, she got on her knees and crawled to the patio doors of the houseboat. She reached up with one hand and pulled on the handle. Locked. She used the handle to pull herself to her feet. While she rested her forehead against the glass door, she thought about the walk back across the bridge. Between her sore back and her wet clothes, she’d never make it. She dipped her trembling hand into her soggy coat pocket and felt nothing. Her cell had been lost during her tumble into the water. It wouldn’t have worked anyway.

  Another gust whipped across the deck of the boat, and she twined her arms around her shivering body. She wondered if she should peel off some of the wet clothing, then told herself that was a bad idea. She remembered something from a survival class taught at Quantico. Paradoxical undressing. That’s what they called it when hypothermia victims removed clothing even as they were freezing to death. She’d be damned if they were going to find her dead and naked.

  Lifting her face off the patio door, she looked to the lighted windows of Matthew’s boat. She couldn’t go there for help. He was most likely the one who’d batted her into the river. What had he used to hit her? It felt like a concrete block.

  She scanned the water’s edge for safer options. On the other side of the Good Enuf was a medium-size craft with two levels, both of them lit. Beyond that were two smaller boats that looked dark and vacant.

  Hugging herself, she hobbled across the deck of the Good Enuf and stepped onto the dock. With the greatest of effort, she put one foot in front of the other and made it over to the double-decker houseboat, the Three-Hour Tour. Lighted plastic pumpkins stood sentry, one on each side of the entrance, and the door itself was plastered with cardboard cutouts of tarantulas. As she raised her fist to knock, she remembered her nightmare about spiders crawling over her while she beat against the door of a houseboat. Did that mean this was the wrong place to go for sanctuary? Screw the dream, she thought, and brought her fist down on the wood. She knocked again and yelled, “Hello? Is anyone home?” She heard a deadbolt being turned on the other side.