Blind Rage

by Terri Persons

  The door opened a crack. Long bangs and a big nose peeked out at her from the other side of a security chain. Gilligan’s double. “Holy crap,” he sputtered, taking in her wet figure.

  “I f-fell in,” she chattered.

  He took down the security chain and opened the door wide. “Get inside.”

  “Thank you.” As she stepped over his threshold, she glanced down at her feet and realized that her shoes were gone.

  He closed the door after her and ran over to his couch. He snatched a purple Minnesota Vikings throw off the cushions and draped it over her shoulders. “I’m gonna call an ambulance.”

  She shook her head. “No. I just gotta get out of these c-clothes.”

  Taking a couple of steps back from her, he ran a hand through his dark mop. “Maybe I should call the cops.”

  “No,” she said, and felt herself start to totter.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, crossing his arms as if he were the one who was cold. “What’re you doing out here at night?”

  “Is it the pizza?” a young woman yelled from another room.

  “No!” he yelled back, nervously tucking his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “She fell in. Someone fell in. Get in here, Lor.”

  A petite brunette dressed in yellow pajama bottoms and a Sponge-Bob T-shirt thumped into the room. She took one look at the visitor huddled near the door, a throw hanging from her shoulders, and blurted, “Holy crap. Who’re you?”

  “I’m…I fell in,” Bernadette said, holding the throw tight around her body.

  The woman went over to Bernadette and put an arm around her. “You look ready to pass out.”

  The guy seemed relieved to have the woman on the scene. “Get her outta those clothes, Lor.”

  Lor started steering Bernadette to a door at the side of the living room. “Bathroom’s this way. You can take this stuff off while I get you some sweats.”

  “What happened? How’d you fall in?” the man asked her.

  “I…had this really bad blind date.”

  “I’ll bet it was Jason down at the end,” the man said as the two women walked side by side.

  “I don’t want to get into it,” Bernadette said.

  “It was Jason, all right.”

  Lor stopped and snapped over her shoulder, “Wally! Give the Jason crap a rest, would you?”

  “I left in a hurry,” Bernadette continued. “I got all turned around and thought I was walking to shore. I stepped right off the dock and into the water. I don’t know how it happened. I got so flustered.”

  “Jason does that to women,” said Lor, pushing open the door to the bathroom. “He’s such an asshole. I can’t believe someone fixed you up with him.”

  Bernadette felt guilty about tarnishing some innocent person’s reputation. “It wasn’t Jason,” she said as she stepped into the bathroom.

  “Do you want me to phone someone for you?” Wally asked from the living room.

  Bernadette knew who would come get her, but she didn’t want her hosts to make the call or overhear it. “There’s…this other fella,” she said through the door. “It’s kind of awkward.”

  Lor got the hint and came back to the bathroom with a cell. She hesitated, studying Bernadette’s face. “Don’t call China or any shit like that, okay?”

  “Promise,” said Bernadette, taking the phone and closing the door. Though she was beginning to warm up, she remained wobbly and sore. She dropped the toilet lid and sat down on it. After punching in his number, she held the phone to her ear with one hand and crossed her fingers with the other.

  He picked up after five rings. “Garcia.”

  She was never so relieved to hear his voice. “Tony. Thank God.”

  “What’s going on? Where are you?”

  The swampy taste of the river climbed up her throat, and she felt nauseous. Bending over, she whispered into the phone, “I’m at the St. Paul Yacht Club, on Harriet Island.”

  “I know where it is, but what—”

  “The boat is called the Three-Hour Tour. I’ll have them unlock the gate for you. It’s Gate G. The lower harbor.”

  “What are you doing on a boat? What happened to dinner with the brother?”

  “I’ll fill you in when you get here.”

  “What did you do?”

  Bernadette heard a knock at the bathroom door. “One second,” she said into the phone, and set the cell on the bathroom counter. She got up off the toilet lid, wincing from the back pain, and shuffled over to the door while clutching the throw around her. She felt like an old lady. She opened the door and took an armload of clothing from Lor.

  “Keep the works,” said the young woman. “It was all headed to Goodwill.”

  “Thanks.”

  “The ex-boyfriend coming to the rescue?”

  Bernadette paused, amused by the role assigned to Garcia. She smiled. “Yeah. He’s on his way. I told him the name of your boat. If you could unlock the gate for him.”

  “I’ll send Wally,” said the young woman. “You need anything else?”

  Bernadette adjusted the clothes in her arms. “No. This is great. I really appreciate it.”

  “Oh, wait,” said Lor, bending over to retrieve something from the floor. She passed a plastic garbage bag to Bernadette. “For your wet clothes.”

  “Thanks again.”

  “I’ll let you get dressed,” she said, and closed the bathroom door.

  Bernadette sat back down on the toilet lid with the phone. “Are you there?”

  “I’m the ex-boyfriend, am I?”

  “This is a really long story,” Bernadette whispered into the cell.

  “I’m in my boxers, so it better be a good one.”

  “It is,” she said, and hung up.

  Bernadette dressed quickly. The gray sweats felt warm, dry, and comfortably baggy. The woman had even included a pair of wool socks, some well-worn running shoes, and an old ski jacket. While Bernadette stuffed her wet clothes into the garbage bag, she eyed the gun and holster she’d set on the bathroom counter. She’d heard the Glock could survive getting run over by a tank. A dip in the river should be nothing.

  Lor tapped on the bathroom door. “How’re you doing in there?”

  “Give me one minute,” Bernadette said while tucking the damp holster and gun into the bottomless pockets of the sweatpants. These people had been more than generous, and Bernadette decided to meet Garcia at the gate rather than impose upon them any further. She pulled on the ski jacket and was glad to see it hid the bulge of her gun.

  The door popped open and Lor stuck her head inside. “Want me to toss your clothes for you, or are you gonna try to salvage them?”

  Bernadette had removed her ID and her wallet. As far as she was concerned, the rest of it, even the coat, was a loss. She never wanted to set eyes on the stuff again. She handed the heavy bag to Lor. “Trash it.”

  “That’s what I figured,” said the young woman.

  BERNADETTE MANAGED to get off of the Three-Hour Tour without giving Wally and Lor a name, real or fabricated. She figured they were thrilled to rid themselves of the nighttime drama as quickly as possible. As she thumped down the dock, she adjusted her grip on her gun. If her assailant showed up for another try, she wanted to put a bullet in the sneaky bastard. Before she started up the steps that would take her back to the park, she stole a quick look at Matthew’s houseboat. All the lights were off now. He and the woman either had gone to bed or had left while she was inside the Three-Hour Tour.

  In her mind, she went back and forth over whether Matthew was indeed the villain. He could have seen her and slipped outside to push her into the river, but what excuse would he have given the woman for leaving the boat? Pardon me a minute while I drown an FBI agent, and please freshen up my drink while I’m gone.

  Garcia was just pulling into the parking lot in his Pontiac Grand Am. Spotting her standing in front of the fence, he navigated his heap over to the sidewalk. “Hey, lady, need a lif
t?” His face darkened when he saw the gun in her hand.

  She dropped her gun in the ski jacket’s pocket, opened the passenger door, and hopped inside. Slamming the door hard, she said: “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Garcia turned out of the park. “Why did you have your piece out? Why are you dressed like a bum?”

  She reached over and turned up the heat. Looking through the windshield, she noticed the crack was gone. “I see you finally fixed the—”

  “Let’s hear it.” He turned the car north onto the Wabasha Bridge and headed for downtown. “Let’s hear it, Cat. Spill it.”

  “Not yet.” She looked through the passenger window. The nighttime river would never again seem beautiful and mysterious. She’d tasted it. Nearly drowned in it. A bit of it still clogged her ears and clung to her body. The romance was gone. “I need some time.”

  “Time for what?”

  “How about we wait until we’re inside?” she asked. “Can we save it until my place?”

  “You’d better have beer,” he said, bumping off the bridge and heading for her loft.

  “I have beer,” she said, using her index finger to work water out of her ear.

  He braked at a red light and wrinkled his nose. “It smells like a swamp in here.”

  “Maybe you need to put up one of those air fresheners,” she said.

  Chapter 28

  WHILE SHE SHOWERED OFF THE STINK OF THE RIVER, GARCIA sat on her couch with the remote in one hand and a beer in the other. The instant she cracked open the bathroom door, he punched off the television and looked expectantly in her direction.

  “Keep your shirt on,” she said as she tightened the belt around her bathrobe and headed for the kitchen.

  He punched the set back on and started surfing the channels. “You’re walking like a grandma.”

  “Thanks. You want another beer?”

  “I’m good.” He stopped at a program about insects.

  “Ants communicate primarily through chemicals called pheromones.”

  He dropped the remote on the couch. “Ever wonder how they get those close-ups? I mean, how do they get right into the ant hole—right into the ants’ faces—without disturbing the little turds?”

  “What is it about males and nature shows?” she asked, frowning at his selection. “It’s either that or the History Channel.”

  “We like war and bugs.” He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

  “Eureka! This hardworking forager has found a supply of food, a wedge of apple discarded by picnickers.”

  She went to the cupboards to check her store of hard liquor and saw a dusty bottle of Jack Daniel’s hidden behind some ancient vodka. “Eureka! The hardworking agent has found a supply of good booze.” She took down the bottle and a shot glass. “Will you be pissed if I call in drunk the rest of the month?”

  “She leaves a pheromone trail along the ground as she makes her way home. Before long, the other ants are following this very same pheromone route. Returning home, they reinforce this same path. This in turn attracts more ants.”

  “What did you say?” he asked.

  “Never mind,” she said, pouring a shot.

  “A new obstacle—a fallen twig—blocks the established route to the food supply, so the foragers deviate from the path to find a new trail. If successful, the victorious returning explorer leaves a new trail marking the shortest detour.”

  Glancing into the kitchen, he saw her down a shot while she was standing at the counter. “Are you getting lit?”

  “The trail is no longer reinforced and slowly dissipates once the food supply is completely exhausted.”

  “I’m drinking until the liquor supply is completely exhausted,” she said, and held the bottle up to study the level of whiskey.

  He aimed the remote at the bugs and shut off the set. “What happened to you tonight, Cat?”

  She poured a second shot and took the glass and the bottle over to the coffee table. She dropped down next to him on the couch. “Someone tried to drown me.”

  “What? Who? How’d you end up down by the river in the first place?”

  She tipped back another shot and shuddered. The heat of the whiskey sent a pleasant warmth rippling through her body. She set down the glass and rewound to the beginning of her story. “Matt and I had dinner at that fancy restaurant, the one on Wabasha Street with the tall windows and the froufrou curtains.”

  “Nice place.”

  “You’ll see how nice when I turn in my expense account,” she said.

  Garcia sat back against the cushions. “Sounds like he was he trying to soften you up.”

  “He wanted me to lay off his big brother and his big files,” she said. “He went on and on about what a great human being Luke is, how he started this suicide hotline and that clinic. While he’s giving me this sales pitch, Little Brother is getting bombed on high-end vino.”

  “What about you? Did you drink with him?”

  She paused, feeling insulted by the question. “I had a sip or two of wine.”

  He glanced at the whiskey bottle.

  “Seriously,” she said. “Two sips.”

  “I believe you.” He set his St. Pauli on the coffee table. “Did he tell you if the doc knows Wakefielder?”

  “Matt claimed not to know the guy. I’m not sure I believe him.”

  “Did he give you anything on the dead girls?”

  “He said Klein’s mother killed herself and Klein tried to kill herself before his brother took her on as a patient. He said he never heard of Zoe Cameron. Again, I don’t know if I believe that.”

  “Did you get anything useful off him?”

  She rubbed her hands together. “I—I got a sense that something isn’t right in that family. Something between Matt and Luke. Something…strange.”

  “Where does the yacht club fit into this strangeness?”

  “It’s coming,” she said. “After dinner, I was worried that he couldn’t drive and suggested he take a cab. He told me he lived in walking distance.”

  “So you walked him home.”

  “Followed him home, to his houseboat. He lives on a houseboat, or at least crashes there after partying.”

  “He didn’t see you tailing him?”

  “I’m sure he didn’t,” she said. “I was careful.”

  He rubbed his face with his hand. “God, Cat. Why did you tail him? Based on a feeling?”

  She ignored his questions and kept going. “I was standing on a neighbor’s boat—don’t worry, they weren’t home—and I saw him arguing with a woman who’d busted into his place. Old girlfriend or something.”

  “Back up,” said Garcia. “You saw him? How did you see him? Were they arguing outside?”

  “I was watching through the window. They had the shades up and the lights on inside, and it was hard not to see.”

  He slapped his hand over his eyes. “Christ.”

  “How was it different from any other surveillance? How was it different from the stakeout of the prof’s house? We tap people’s phones and we keep tabs on their—”

  “Okay, okay,” he said, holding up his hand to halt her diatribe.

  “Anyway, they both suddenly disappeared from the window,” she said. “After a while, she popped back up, but I didn’t see him. I got worried.”

  “Why?”

  “She—the girlfriend—practically scratched his eyes out when they were fighting. I literally saw blood. His face was bloody.”

  “If you were that worried, maybe you should have intervened or called the police.”

  “I thought about that.” She looked down at her hands. “But I didn’t have the chance. While I was standing there watching, someone came up behind me and whacked me on the back with a shovel or something. I went in. Went under.”

  “Shit.”

  She grabbed the Jack Daniel’s, poured a third shot, and laughed nervously. “I’m telling you, Tony, it was cold.”

  He rubbed her should
er through her robe. “Are you okay?”

  “My back is still sore, but otherwise I’m fine.”

  “I want you to go see a doctor.”

  She gave the idea a dismissive wave, tipped back the third shot, and swallowed hard. “I crawled onto the neighbor’s boat. Practically crawled down the dock. Found a houseboat with the lights on. Banged on the door. I made up some story about accidentally walking off the dock. Didn’t give them my name or anything. They gave me a change of clothes and let me use their phone.” She paused. “I need a new cell, by the way.”

  “Who hit you? Did you get a look?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, cupping the empty whiskey glass between her hands. “They were gone by the time I came up for air. It could have been Matthew. Maybe he saw me through the window and sneaked off his houseboat. Came after me. That’s why I couldn’t see him in the windows. On the other hand, it could have just as easily been a neighbor who’d had too many break-ins already and thought I was another burglar. Or maybe it was another bum.”

  “Another bum?”

  Rolling the glass between her palms, she fumbled an explanation. She hadn’t intended to tell him about the basement fiasco yet. “Something happened downstairs.”

  “What happened? Downstairs where?”

  “The basement here.” She felt a knot in her gut as she remembered the scumbag’s body on top of her own. “These two tramps came after me. One of them jumped me.”

  “Shit. When?”

  “Late Thursday night, after you left. I went back down to try another round with the scarf.” She felt guilty seeing his stressed face. “But I’m okay. They were drunks. I kicked the crap out of the one who tried to grab me. The cops came and hauled them away.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Nobody. Bums. Drunk bums. They got in through that busted front door.”

  “Great. When were you going to tell me about it? Were you going to let me find out from my cousin at the cop shop?”