Outburst

by R. D. Zimmerman

  If she was going to free herself, it wasn't going to be by force. No, the only way she was going to get out of this was the way she got out of everything: talk. Big talk. Big stupid, lawyerly talk. But to do that she was not only going to have to get the gag out of her mouth, she was going to have to understand what was happening. Which meant she was right back at square one: What the hell was going on? Just please, she prayed, don't let it be Kris who has done this. It can't be. Kris isn't that stupid, that desperate.

  Suddenly—yes, from up front, from the dashboard—there was a click of a radio. The next moment music began to play. Rock. Yes, Alanis Morissette.

  And then a hoarse, wispy voice said, “You comfortable back there?”

  Stunned, Janice didn't move. Didn't even try to curse or scream out.

  “Well, don't worry. We'll be there pretty soon.”

  Janice couldn't tell if the voice, so nondescript, so noncommittal, was that of a man or a woman. Christopher or Kris. Or neither?

  She lay completely still. She had to think. Had to figure this out before they arrived wherever they were going, because God only knew how long she'd have then.

  They rounded a long, arching corner, and Janice heard a nearby thud as something shifted. What was it, a suitcase? A box? Desperate to find out, she started to roll, twisting across the back of the van. It took all of two turns before she collided not with a thing but with the soft folds of another body. Dear God, someone else was back here, and Janice flinched, blurted something through the gag. There was, however, no response. Janice nudged the person with her knees, then with her shoulders, yet she got nothing back, not a muffled plea, nor even a terrified sob. She rolled herself closer, poked at her secret sharer one more time. And again nothing, only a lifeless corpse. Finally, she moved as close as she could and blindly nudged at the other with her nose, sensing first a thin arm, next a smallish breast, then lastly a mass of short hair.

  Oh, my God, silently screamed Janice, her heart beating maniacally, wasn't this in fact Kris … and wasn't she dead?

  40

  The release of Christopher Louis Kenney shocked everyone, and the news spread not only up and down the nineteenth floor but through Government Center as fast as e-mail could carry it. No one really understood why Judge Stuart Hawkins had refused to sign the complaint against Kenney.

  No one except Douglas Simms.

  Disgusted, he'd left his office as soon as he'd heard, and now Simms sat in the basement level cafeteria of Government Center sipping his second large Coke. So what was he supposed to do? How in the hell was he supposed to handle this? He knew perfectly well what had taken place, both back at that fundraiser weeks ago and again today.

  Well, fuck Hawkins, thought Simms, slamming down the last bit of Coke. He sucked on the ice cubes, spit them back into the tall paper cup. Then pushing back his chair, he rose to his feet, a rush swirling through his body and a grin crossing his face. There was no way in hell he was going back to work today. Nope. And there was no way he was going back tomorrow or the day after. Letting Christopher Kenney go free today was a mistake that couldn't be made.

  Wearing a cheap blue suit, he rode the escalator up one floor, then left the building. The summer air was thick, turgid even, and the temperature was climbing high, the humidity pumping up, covering Minnesota as if with a tropical blanket. Simms glanced into the sky, saw enormous clouds billowing up into the heavens.

  There was a wind, sultry yet strong, and Simms knew the heat would soon break. It always did.

  His heart pounding—had it really come to this?—Simms jogged across Fifth Avenue and ducked into the parking ramp. He climbed the stairs three levels and, huffing and sweating, made his way up the sloping concrete floor toward his car, a small white sedan. Taking out his keys, he unlocked the door, took off his suit coat, and tossed it in the backseat, then climbed in. A dense, suffocating cloud of heat embraced him. He gasped.

  Was he really going to do this, really going to quit? Damn right. He'd wanted nothing more than to be Hawkins's campaign manager, and he'd have been perfect. But there was no way in hell he wanted anything more to do with Judge Stuart Hawkins. Not now. Not after today.

  Douglas Simms revved up his car. He'd been ready to blackmail Hawkins, per se—make me your campaign manager or I might be inclined to blab about your young girlfriend—but not anymore. Allowing a murder suspect to simply walk out of here was too gross an injunction.

  Nope, there was no way in hell he was going down any kind of political path with Stuart Hawkins.

  41

  As they waited for the hotel elevator on the fourth floor, Todd said, “I'm not sure Janice is going to speak to me ever again. Or you, for that matter.”

  “She was that pissed?” asked Rawlins.

  “Furious. Bradley and I were standing right outside City Hall when they came out.”

  A chime announced the arrival of the lift, and just as the doors eased open a man with short brown hair stepped out. Clutching a can of soda, the guy kept his head bowed as he moved quickly past them and started down the hall.

  Todd followed Rawlins into the lift, but instead of hitting the button for the ground floor, he pressed the one to hold the doors open. It was only a sense, but he peered after the guy. He wasn't too tall. Not too old. Broad-shouldered. And attractive. When the stranger glanced nervously over his shoulder and their eyes met and held for a flash of a knowing second, Todd knew.

  “Russ?” called Todd.

  The guy took off, bolting down the corridor. Without a moment's hesitation Todd and Rawlins broke into a run as well, bursting from the elevator and running after him as fast as they could. This was him, Russ Fugle, the one they wanted, and he had, Todd knew now more than ever, some kind of truth, not just to Mark Forrest's life but also his death. And there was no way in hell Todd was going to let that truth now escape.

  “Police! Stop!” bellowed Rawlins, reaching into his jacket for his gun.

  Going all the faster, Russ threw aside his open can of soda and tore down the corridor to the right. By the time Todd and Rawlins rounded the corner, Russ was almost to his room, fumbling for his plastic key, trying to get it out, then desperately attempting to cram it into the lock. Terrified, he looked back as they closed in, then finally got the door unlocked, heaved it open, and darted inside.

  Shit, thought Todd, he's got a gun in there.

  Just as the door was slamming shut, Rawlins and Todd threw themselves against it. Under their force and weight the door exploded inward, and Russ Fugle went flying back, tumbling to the floor. Seizing the moment, Rawlins barreled in and was all over Fugle within seconds, shouting, then shoving, next dragging.

  “Police!” he shouted. “Don't move!”

  And before Todd knew it, Rawlins was sitting on Russ Fugle's back and pinning him facedown to the floor of his hotel room.

  “Please!” begged Fugle, his face pressed into the carpet at the foot of the bed. “I didn't do it! I didn't kill Mark!”

  “Then who did?” demanded Rawlins.

  Coming up on the side, Todd looked at Fugle's profile, saw the thick sideburns, the dark brown hair. His eyes ran over the broad hands splayed on the floor, hands that were not only thick but had a trail of dark hair running over the back of them. And in a flash Todd knew this guy hadn't been the one.

  “That's not him,” said Todd. “That's not the guy I saw on the bridge.”

  Rawlins sat back and cursed. “Crap.”

  “He's right, it wasn't me!”

  “Get off him, Rawlins.”

  “Do you have a gun?” asked Rawlins. “Or a weapon of any sort?”

  “No, of course not! Nothing, I've got nothing!”

  “Okay, then, just don't do anything fast,” Rawlins said as he rose to his feet, gun in hand.

  Russ Fugle lay there, then slowly rolled over. Shaking, he looked at Rawlins, then Todd, and next pushed himself up.

  “You just sit there, right there on the end of the bed,” orde
red Rawlins, “and tell us what's going on.”

  Todd watched as Fugle did as he was told. No, this wasn't the guy in the yellow raincoat, the one who'd gunned down Forrest and taken a shot at Todd. Of that Todd was completely sure. But why was he so afraid? What did he know? Could he possibly be the guy who'd been lurking behind Rawlins's house and had fired on him?

  “You were Mark Forrest's lover, weren't you?” asked Todd.

  He bowed his head. “Yeah.”

  “And you were with him that night, weren't you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “At the river?” asked Rawlins.

  Fugle nodded, then, starting to weep, he bowed his head and covered his eyes with his left hand. “Oh, God. I've just been so afraid. You don't know what it's been like. She's been calling and calling, and—”

  “Who?” demanded Rawlins. “Kris Kenney?”

  “What?” said Fugle, looking up, his face washed with confusion.

  It was right then that Todd understood. He'd been afraid like that, terrified to come forward because of all the truths it would force to the surface. Yes, he'd done as Russ Fugle had done. He'd been in exactly the same position as this closeted man right before him, tangled in a web of lies from which there seemed to be no escape.

  Todd said, “You're married, aren't you?”

  Biting his bottom lip, Fugle nodded. “Yeah …” He took a deep breath and motioned toward the phone. “She keeps calling. My wife—she doesn't know, doesn't have any idea.”

  “About Mark?” asked Todd.

  “Exactly. She thinks I keep coming here on business, which is only partly true.”

  Not only was this guy stressed to the max, but Todd could see he was exhausted, worn out from all the lies that he'd apparently told and told well. And it was the weight of Mark Forrest's death that was proving unbearable and demanding that all the truths finally come to light.

  “You know something,” began Todd, “but you haven't come forward because—”

  “I've got two boys! Two little boys, seven and ten!”

  “Because that would mean outing yourself.”

  Fugle slowly nodded, then said, “I thought about leaving my wife for Mark—that's what he wanted, that's kind of what we were working toward—but now he's dead and … and …”

  Rawlins gently said, “Tell us what you know.”

  “I went down there with Mark. To the river. I drove down there with him. He told me to wait in the car while he went to meet with you,” he said, wiping his eyes and then looking up at Todd. “Then there was that storm, all the lightning and thunder and that wind. I stayed in the car through it all. But then Mark didn't come back. The rain stopped and I started to get worried about him, you know, like he might've gotten hurt in the storm. I saw someone come running off the bridge and take off, and then I got out and went down the bridge. I looked out, and there was Mark's body floating … floating facedown in the river … and … and you,” he said, again looking at Todd, “were on the ground. I thought you were dead too. I was so scared I ran all the way back to the hotel.”

  “The person you saw come running off the bridge—it was him, wasn't it, the guy in the yellow raincoat?” asked Todd, sensing the truth was finally within reach.

  “Yes.”

  Rawlins said, “What did he look like?”

  “I … I don't know. I couldn't really see his face.”

  “What about his car?”

  “He'd put mud on the license plates, but the rain washed part of it off. It was a rental car from Enterprise—I saw their sticker, you know, the ethey put on the bumper. It was a white Toyota. I couldn't make out the numbers, but I did see the last three letters on the rear plates.” Fugle motioned toward the desk. “I've been so afraid I'd forget it that I've been writing it over and over: GMF.”

  Yes, thought Todd. License plates up here consisted of three numbers followed by three letters. So they had half of the license plate for a white Toyota from Enterprise rental cars.

  His phone began to ring. Pulling it from his pocket, he glanced at Rawlins, who was glaring at him. This might be one of the producers at the station. Or it might be something like Minnesota Public Radio asking for a donation. Then again, it very well might be Janice calling to yell at him.

  Answering, he said, “Todd Mills.”

  “Todd! Todd, it's me, Janice! I'm in trouble and—”

  42

  “I'm in trouble and—”

  His deep, rich voice called, “Janice?”

  “Todd! ” she screamed.

  Janice's captor grabbed her by the hair and yanked her back. Losing her balance, she cried out as she was pulled from the phone booth.

  “Todd!”

  “Janice!” he shouted as the receiver flew out of her hand.

  While the tape around her ankles had been cut away and the cloth gagging her mouth ripped off, her eyes were still covered. Her hands were strapped tightly behind her back as well, and, with no way of catching herself, she fell backward, landing first on her rear, then falling on her back.

  In front of her, the captor grabbed the phone, and speaking in a soft, wispy voice, said, “Listen, asshole, there's an old gas station at the Crow Island exit off Thirty-five W South. If you ever want to see your friend Janice alive again, go to the phone booth behind it. And come alone, asshole. I mean it—do as I say, or this is one dead fucking bitch.” There was a moment of silence, and he laughed, saying, “Yeah, it's me, Kris.”

  Lying on the old pavement—yes, old, broken pavement, she thought, one tiny, sane corner of her mind making note of everything, including the bits of gravel and broken glass—Janice heard him slam down the receiver. Next came the sound of feet dashing over gravel. Finally, Janice blindly sensed her unseen abductor descending upon her.

  “Everything's going perfectly,” he said, his voice hoarse. “He'll be here right on schedule.”

  She shouted, “Why the hell did you tell him that?”

  “Tell him what?”

  “That you're Kris. You're not her—she's back in the van!”

  “How very perceptive of you.”

  “Is she dead? Did you kill her?”

  He laughed. “Perhaps.”

  “Whoever you are, please don't do this!”

  “You talk too fucking much!”

  “Please!” she begged, struggling to get up and perhaps, somehow, get away. “I can help you, I really can!”

  “Shut up!” he yelled, slapping her on the cheek.

  Janice screamed, fell back to the ground. Just as quickly, she felt his fingers digging into her arm.

  “Get the fuck up!” he demanded.

  “Ow!”

  “Come on!”

  Janice didn't so much get up as was lifted to her feet. And once yanked upright, she was shoved on. Jesus Christ, she thought, stumbling along and fearing the worst, fearing every horror story she'd ever read in the paper, seen on television, or heard in court. All the axe murders, the tortures, the vivisections whizzed through her mind. What the hell was this all about? And why in God's name wasn't anyone stopping? Why couldn't any stupid passing motorist see what was happening?

  “Get in!” he demanded, pushing her forward.

  Thrown ahead, she sightlessly trudged on until her shin hit the running board of the van and she fell forward, tumbling face-first through an open door. Twisting to the side at the last moment, she toppled onto the floor of the van, breaking the fall with her shoulder.

  Janice pleaded, “Who are you? Please, I can make things right. I can—”

  “Shut up!” he ordered.

  The next instant Janice heard him charge up behind her, then felt his powerful hand as he grabbed her by the arm and flipped her over. Janice shrieked, sure that he was about to strike her. Instead, he dropped himself upon her. She bucked once, twice, then felt something jabbed into her mouth. Cloth. Some kind of rag. She screamed as loud as she could, but of course the gag did its job, corking her fear back in her body. She twisted t
o the side, kicked with her feet, her right foot connecting squarely with his ribs.

  “You bitch!”

  He punched her, his fist landing square in her gut. In a millisecond all the air seemed to explode out of every little corner of her gut, and when she breathed back in, she couldn't get her breath. Or not enough. It was as if she'd sucked the cotton gag all the way down her throat. She went to scream, but nothing came out. Panicking, her body flushing with heat, she sucked in through her nose, pulled and pulled and pulled with every muscle in her body until her nostrils shriveled up and collapsed. Desperate, she tried again, then again, her lungs tasting oxygen, killing for more. But her head felt light, her mind breezy, and it was not until a minute or two later, lying completely still on the floor of the van, that she felt as if she wouldn't pass out.

  And only then did she realize that her feet were once again bound, the door to the van was shut, and the vehicle was once again driving off, bouncing and swaying down some road.

  “How you doin' back there, huh?” called her mad driver.

  Rocking back and forth on the floor, Janice struggled not to cry, not to burst into hysterical sobs. You can't, you can't, you can't, she chanted. Just gotta breathe. Just gotta stay alive. One minute, one moment, at a time. She turned her attention to the other body back here, that of Kris, and struggled to hear anything, even the faintest sign of life. There was, however, nothing, not a moan, not even a single breath.

  “You say you're fine? Well, that's good,” he laughed, “because things are gonna get real interesting now. Just you wait. It's going so perfectly, really so great. Your friend, that reporter, that Todd Mills—he's on his way. You did a good job back there, Janice. He's gonna come runnin', I'm sure of it, aren't you?”

  Oh, God, thought Janice, lying there, all of her wrapped and twisted and bound in fear. Not him too. Please, not Todd.

  “And, trust me, you're going to give him a really great story. I mean, a perfect one for TV. He's gonna come running, running real fast—and you know what? You know what he's gonna find?” He cackled. “Oh, this time it's going so very right. He's gonna find one very dead lawyer!”