Blood Rust Chains

by Marco Etheridge

“Now do you understand why I am here?” The man took one step forward, one step too many for James Watson.

  James felt a wave of clarity sweep over him, a horrible sinking feeling. A stark spasm of panic followed on the heels of that clarity, a wave of panic so fierce that it threatened to empty his bowels. Help, I need help! I can get to the balcony, scream for help, someone will hear me. He backpedaled, frantic, his stocking feet pulling the Persian rug askew. A vase of flowers shattered to the floor as he bounced off the living room wall, righted himself, and careened backwards waving his hands in front of him. “Leave me alone, leave me alone!” he begged.

  As James Watson reached the open french door, he spun around to cry into the night, a cry for help, a cry for aid. Before he could make a sound, his feet tangled in the threshold of the doorway. His own momentum twisting him as he fell, his hip struck hard against the top of the balcony wall, flipping his torso into the empty blackness beyond. The force of his frenzied flight levered his legs into the air above the balcony, where they went flying after him.

  The last thing that James Watson ever saw was the briefest glimpse of a narrow strip of starry night. The last thing he heard in this life was the single huge crash of an enormous bass drum. Then there was the brightest of lights, a flash of whiteness exterminating all and everything.

  Mo Evans watched the flailing legs disappear over the edge of the balcony wall. He heard the dull hollow thud that followed. For a long moment, the man stood perfectly still. Slowly, he glanced to the floor, saw the scattered flowers framed with shards from a broken vase. He raised his eyes to the empty balcony and smiled a crooked smile. He turned away from the living room and took three steps to the door of the apartment. He grasped the left cuff of his shirt with his right hand, pulling the end of the sleeve down over his left hand. With the covered hand, he reached for the door handle and opened it, rubbing the denim fabric of the shirt over the brass surface of the handle. Stepping into the empty hallway, he gripped the edge of the wooden door with the same hand. Pulling it to until he could just slip his large hand out of the gap between the door and the frame, he turned away. He walked down the threadbare carpet silent as a cat. As he walked, he straightened his shoulder. The hard left hand emerged from the sleeve, swinging at his side.

  Chapter 21

  Sonya

  Sonya passed into the shadows cast by the Burnside Bridge, oblivious to the dirty knots of homeless kids scattered along either side of the walkway. On the bridge above, traffic noise hissed and shuddered in the afternoon rush hour. The cacophony pulsing through the overhead span reminded Sonya of her mother. Hey, look at the bright side, Grrl. If it all goes wrong, you will make the Moms very happy. An ill wind that blows no good, right? She sighed to herself. Sorry Moms, but Quinn Boyd hasn’t been kicked to the curb just yet, as much as you would like to hear those words. Skating on very thin ice? Oh yes he was. Very thin indeed, thought Sonya.

  The long green strip of the Willamette River promenade buzzed with late-afternoon foot traffic. All manner of active Portlandians were walking, running, skating and bouncing along the riverfront. Assorted pan-handlers tried to coax or guilt the passersby of any loose change they might be encumbered with. Business folks were heading home to condos in the south end of the downtown. Sonya made her way down the wide walkway under the trees, dodging errant gluten-free runners pushing jog-strollers filled with organically clad babies.

  The contents of one of those strollers would be the culmination of her mother’s dreams. The apex of The Moms’ desires would be a triple-wide stroller, a desire to be accomplished by a well thought out grand-maternal plan. The first step of the plan was the jettisoning of Quinn Boyd, of course. The second would be Sonya’s speedy hunt for, and marriage to, a wealthy Senior Partner at the firm. A sprawling home nestled in the West Hills, complete with large mother-in-law quarters, was the last piece of the puzzle. Sonya avoided looking into any more of the speeding strollers. She shuddered at the image of a suburban prison complete with matching munchkins. Yeah, my mother’s vision of perfection, my vision of hell. Maybe that was what had pushed her father to the bottle. No, no excuses for him, no matter how handy.

  This had not been the script for the day, not at all. Without lying, she could tell her mother that she had this very day met with a Senior Partner, although not with the purpose of making little baby lawyers. Certainly not with this particular Senior Partner, who was a lead-off batter for the other team. Sonya begged a favor of Gerald, asking him to dip into his contacts at the Coroner’s Office. He raised a perfectly trimmed eyebrow at Sonya, but asked no questions. Within an hour Sonya knew what she needed to know, enough to put most of her worries to rest. Or so she thought.

  The Coroner’s Office had finished with the mortal remains of James Watson. The official ruling was that the victim had died as a result of an accident. Cause of death was a fall under unknown circumstances. Case closed. This information should have been the high point of the day, a cause for an evening of celebration with Quinn. Then came his lunchtime call. Before Sonya could share the good news, Quinn, regret seeping from his voice, told her he had messed up and that he needed to make amends. Not only did he skip his home group meeting, but of this own volition he went to Mo Evan’s shop for some sort of macho showdown. The only thing that saved him from her well-deserved wrath was the voice she heard pouring out of the phone. It was his real voice, the sweet voice of her Quinn. As he spoke, Sonya searched his words for any edge of anger, but she only heard sadness. She kept the news about James Watson to herself.

  Sonya paused at the concrete wall of the promenade and leaned against it, gazing across the river to the east shore. On her left, traffic crawled across the Burnside Bridge, disappearing into the last of the shrinking industrial belt along the far side of the Willamette. On her right, the Morrison bridge afforded passage over the river into the new fringe of condos on the Eastside.

  As she watched the sluggish waters of the Willamette swirling past, heading north to the mighty Colombia, Sonya pondered the evening to come. So Quinn wants to make amends. Okay, she would listen. Maybe they could get past the immediate problem of Quinn’s recent actions, actions that seemed to border on the insane. But what about the long term? Do I really want to be with an insane person? No, Grrl, you most certainly do not. That’s why you chose Quinn in the first place, because he was a sweet, gentle man, funny and honest. And real, very real. Not a crazy man. Sonya’s dating history included a few crazy men. At the very least, she was crystal clear on what she didn’t want.

  Leaning against the concrete balustrade, she weighed out the balance of her life with Quinn. He was a good man and she loved him very much. But that’s not the question, is it? She told him she would go through anything with him, anything except a return to the dope or the booze. She had meant it when she said it. But did that mean she was open to everything else, including his crazy actions of the last week? No, there was a limit to how much craziness she was willing to have in her life. True, the insanity seemed to have come from the outside, pressing in on them. But that happens in life, right? If Quinn got crazy every time life got crazy, well, that was more than Sonya was willing to deal with.

  So, okay, pros and cons. You need to get your head clear about all of this. Head first, then heart. Quinn told me what he did, he volunteered the information. That was a positive. Yes, but what he told you is that he skipped his meeting to go to Mo Evan’s shop. Very much not okay. He also told me that he lied to Paul about being sick. Sonya smiled to herself. Quinn is a guy that tells the truth, and sometimes tells it so badly that he should just keep it to himself. This wasn’t one of those times, of course. This was a big deal. Still, she thought of how cute it was to watch him struggle with a small white lie that others would just toss and gloss. So, to his credit, he had told her. She did not have to worry about Quinn Boyd keeping secrets from her, at least not for long. Not to his credit was taking insane risks, confronting a dangerous man like Mo Evans. Sonya knew en
ough about Lewis Penn to know that if he said someone was dangerous, it was the truth. What the hell had Quinn been thinking? Why would he potentially risk his life without thinking about the consequences? What about her? Sonya rolled that around in her mind. Was she being selfish? No, this is not selfishness. Selfishness is taking a crazy risk without including the one you love. That was selfish. Not a smart thing to do, Quinn. She pushed herself away from the concrete railing and threaded her way back into the flow of foot traffic along the walkway.

  She passed under the Morrison Bridge, carrying her thoughts with her. Was Quinn Boyd the man for her? Sonya’s heart told her that this man was the love of her life, but her head was at odds with her heart. Over the course of the almost two years they had been together, she had watched Quinn grow and change, but always for the better, always moving toward the potential that Sonya knew he possessed. Yes, but what about this last week? Everything seems to have jumped off of the tracks. Have we reached that point? Is this the critical fork in the road?

  Sonya mulled over what might happen this evening, feeling the weight, the serious significance. She felt a surge of frustration, followed by a wave of sadness. Dammit! She walked with the sadness, felt it, and let it go. Quinn wants to talk, so she would listen. He wants to make amends, those were his words, so at least he’s taking this seriously. As he damn well should be, thought Sonya, her mouth set in a grim line. Being cute is definitely not going to get you out of this one Quinn.

  By the time she reached the Hawthorne Bridge, Sonya felt the conflict between her head and her heart lessen. Quinn needs to talk and I need to listen. I hope that he can say what I need to hear to put this behind us. We either move forward from here or we do not. Yes, I love Quinn and I don’t want to lose him from my life, but I’m no one’s doormat, and I never will be.

  Past the Hawthorne, the walkway curved eastward from the gleaming downtown towers, threading along a small marina. Ahead of her, the riverfront path led into a complex of condominium buildings perched along the river just north of the Marquam Bridge. The huge concrete span hovered high overhead, the grinding noise of I-5 bounced down over the surface of the water. Sonya paused, looking back up the Willamette. A river lined with bridges, she thought. To learn Portland is to learn the bridges, else one was lost. And will we be passing over any bridges tonight? Her heart held out hope, but her head said wait and see.

  Sonya walked into the shadows of the labyrinth of condo buildings. Ground floors were lined with the glass facades of gyms, cafes and shops. Sonya did not stop at their favorite Thai cafe’. No, no take-out will be waiting on you, Quinn Boyd. Maybe the conversation would last long enough to warrant a meal. She hoped it would. But if it did, Quinn could damn well count his lucky stars while taking her out to a decent dinner.

  As she neared the door to her building, Sonya checked her watch. She had thirty minutes to herself before Quinn arrived. Unlocking the door, she imagined Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday on their way to the showdown at the OK Corral. Right, except Wyatt and Doc weren’t sharing a bed and planning a life together. Or maybe they were, who knows. Wow, Grrl, that is way too much man mustache to contemplate. She preferred her men clean shaven and cute, just exactly like Quinn. Waiting for the elevator, one thought echoed both in her head and her heart. Please Quinn, please, get it right, okay? A bell chimed and the elevator doors slid open. Sonya stepped inside.

  Chapter 22

  Quinn and Sonya

  The security intercom chimed soft electronic notes. Sonya moved across the living room to the panel and pressed a sleek touchpad. “Hello?”

  “Hi Sonya, it’s me.” Quinn’s disembodied voice floated through the foyer of the condo.

  “Hmmm, I don’t know any Mr. Me.” Sonya released the touchpad. You deserve that Quinn Boyd.

  “MS Matos, this is Quinn Boyd. May I come up please?” Okay, he’s probably tortured himself enough as it is. No need to add more to the load. Once again, Sonya pressed the touchpad.

  “Of course Mr. Boyd, please come up.” Sugar and spice and everything nice, she thought, pressing a second control to open the outside security door. Okay, Grrl, here we go. Instead of moving away from the gleaming electronic panel, Sonya leaned her forehead into the wood paneling of the wall above it. She closed her eyes and willed herself to breathe. In, out, breathe. Sonya stood without making a sound, leaning forward against the wall of the foyer. She did not move when she heard footsteps in the hallway. She did not move until the sound of the chime died away. The spy hole distorted Quinn’s unsmiling face. Sonya opened the door.

  The door opened and there she stood. Quinn saw the quiet sadness around her eyes and it broke his heart. Before he could say a word, she slipped forward and wrapped her arms around his waist, kissing at his neck, quickly and with what felt like restraint. And then they were apart. Ah, careful lad, be careful, rang the alarm in Quinn’s brain.

  “Hello My Love.” He followed as Sonya backed into the foyer, closing the door behind her.

  “Hello Quinn,” she said, leaning her back against the door, palms flat against its surface. “Let’s go into the living room.” Quinn watched her push herself away from the door and walk to the large sectional that dominated the center of the main room. Quinn dropped his messenger bag to the parquet floor of the foyer, slipped off his shoes, and hung his coat over a stainless steel wall hook. He followed Sonya.

  A glass table floated in the bay formed by the three sections of the sofa. On the table were two glasses of water, with Sonya seated in front of one of them. The other glass was placed around the corner from the first. Quinn noted the careful positioning as he sat in front of the second glass. He looked across the space to Sonya, close enough for an intimate conversation, but far enough away that he would have to reach to touch her. Nothing left to chance if she could help it, thought Quinn.

  Sonya watched Quinn settle into the sofa, picking up on the water glass cue. Good, he’s paying attention. That’s a positive sign. Quinn Boyd, my one and only, here is the diving board. It’s time to jump, Baby.

  “So, you said you needed to talk about the last few days. I’m ready to listen Quinn.” As she watched, Quinn leaned forward, his forearms across his knees. He dropped his head, then raised it and looked into Sonya’s face. She locked his eyes with hers, direct and frank.

  “Sonya, these last ten days or so have been crazy, really crazy for me. So much has gone on that I think it is going to take me a while to process it all, but there are some actions of mine that I need to deal with right off, some things that are most definitely not okay. That’s why I wanted to start out by making amends.” He looked to Sonya for a sign and received a small nod. Okay, Bucko, you know what you need to say.

  “First of all, I lied to Paul about the reasons for missing the meeting. I’m going to have to make a separate amends to him for that. At the same time, I lied to you by omission. I knew you would think I was at the meeting. I made a conscious choice, made up an excuse to avoid the meeting so I could go to Mo Evan’s shop. By not telling you what I was doing last night, I was lying to you by omission, and I was excluding you from important actions that were affecting my life.” Quinn paused. “Our life. I want you to know that I’m aware of this, okay?” This time Sonya’s nod was accompanied by a small smile. Quinn took a breath and plunged on.

  “From here, this gets weirder, more nebulous, so bear with me if you can. I’ve been feeling a lot of anger and it’s been coming out in some very weird ways. It started with the genealogy article, those stories about the two different killers. At first I thought it was all really interesting, you know, from a writer’s perspective. Nothing to do with me personally. But I was wrong about that. Somehow those stories opened up a pathway or channel inside of me, something that started tapping into anger and fear about the past, about my father, stuff like that. Then the thing with the neighbor’s car happened and I had a direction for the anger, a good reason for it. At least that’s how it felt. Then he was dead and the cops w
ere knocking on my door. The anger and fear seemed to be taking control of everything, and I was willing to let that control be taken away. I wish that I had been able to tell you what was going on with me. I think if I had been willing to share that anger and fear with you, I could have avoided a lot of this suffering. So I want to tell you that I am sorry for that.” Quinn reached for the glass of water and drained a third of it.

  Sonya watched him drink, watched him set the glass down with conscious precision and turn to meet her eyes. This has to be so hard for him, but we aren’t done yet. “Quinn, thank you for being so honest about this stuff. I know that this is not an easy thing to do. So I want to be completely honest with you. I understand, at least to a point, how this anger was building in you. I guess a better word is empathize, not understand. Your anger is yours, not mine. So I can empathize with that and I’m glad you have a clearer view on that, or at least it sounds like you do. The one thing about all of this that bothers me the most is that you unilaterally chose to go to Mo Evan’s shop, knowing it was dangerous. When I think about that, I feel so left out of your life. That is what is hurting me the most right now.”

  “Okay, to get to Mo I have to tell you about the tweaker.”

  The tweaker? Where was this going? As Quinn told her about beating a homeless tweaker on a city sidewalk, Sonya fought to hold her shock in check. She understood that everyone has the capacity for violence. Quinn had told her about fighting with his father, not yelling and screaming, but fist-fighting, falling down the front stairs of the old house. She had placed that in the past, one of the horror stories Quinn had told her, but horrors that remained in the past. This thing Quinn was talking about, this happened yesterday. Sonya felt her heart sinking. She tried to concentrate on Quinn’s words.