It looked like a regular, nonsurprise-holding glove box.
Pulling Blodgett’s card from my pocket, I reached for my cell phone, flipped it open. I punched in his number, starting over twice as my shaking fingers fumbled the tiny number pads. Punched SEND and waited. I don’t know how long I sat there before realizing nothing was happening. I pulled the phone away from my ear—dead.
No more stalling. I’d call Blodgett later. Taking a deep breath, I leaned over, popped the latch. The door dropped open with a little clunk, displaying not a rat, but a white, oblong object banded with a strip of bright red. The package sat quiescently in the gap, resting on my map of Minnesota. I stared at it dully. Another present—this one done up in white writing paper and tied with a bow.
My heart, already beating in the high aerobic-range, kicked up another notch as I analyzed the situation. Even if Wayne had planted the package before his murder, he couldn’t have tampered with the mirror. Unless he really was a zombie. Which meant the mirror was coincidental or . . . there was yet another player involved in this game of terror. My stomach cramped, and I bent forward so quickly my head banged off the steering wheel.
How could that be? And who? Carrie? I eyed the oblong package warily. Had she left me a message, something to explain why she had killed Wayne? It didn’t look like a mere note. The paper wrapped something bulky, I could tell.
Or was it somebody else? Some unknown factor? I felt exposed and raw sitting in the parking lot. For all I knew, someone was watching me right now.
Outside my car, the world went on as if nothing was happening. People drove down the street thinking about what to make for supper, whether they could juggle the checkbook to pay the mortgage, whether the Big Mac they ate for lunch would show up on their ass just in time for Cousin Darlene’s wedding. And maybe someone sat in a car or stared at me from an office window, watching, seeing the fear and helplessness play out on my face. Watching me realize that I was still caught in the trap—had never really been free—still caught, writhing, heart thumping, kicking helplessly at the enemy I couldn’t see.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Without benefit of alcohol, I drove home in a blackout. It took three attempts to angle my car into the parking space outside my apartment, and when I’d finally shut the car off I was still shaking. Opening the glove box, I used a pen to wiggle the package into my briefcase. I pretended I was being careful for evidentiary purposes, but I just couldn’t stand touching it.
When I finally made it to the cool, dim recesses of my home, I dropped the briefcase on the floor, shoving it sideways with my foot. Scared the crap out of Siggy, who took off for the bedroom and hid under the bed. Exactly where I wanted to be. I pondered making him scoot over. We could live together, he and I, happy among the dust woofies, coming out only to use the bathroom and watch “American Idol.” It could work.
Sighing, I dumped the contents on my coffee table, the paper-wrapped parcel landing with a muffled thud. Then, I called Blodgett, getting his voice mail. Left a rambling, barely coherent message and hung up.
That was enough decisiveness for the moment. Time for a break. I made use of the bathroom, then detoured into the bedroom to see if Siggy wanted to cuddle. He declined.
Running out of stalling maneuvers, I trudged back to the living room and stared dully at the package for several moments, projecting hatred on it, working up my courage. Courage stayed AWOL, so, settling for resignation, I pulled the red ribbon. A very familiar looking buck knife—except for the newly applied, dried blood—tumbled out. Wayne’s knife. I knew it instantly.
My spine tingled, raising the hair on the back of my neck at the sight of it. Details that I hadn’t remembered when talking with Blodgett emerged. End to end, the whole knife was at least nine inches long, the shiny tip arching gracefully toward my throat. The wooden hand grip curved the opposite way in a faint S-curve. Muddy-brown blood caked the joinery where blade met grip, smudging the patina on the wood grain and dulling the blade’s polished surface.
Whose blood?
Stuck my head between my knees and contemplated leaving it there forever. The view of my own crotch got old pretty quick, especially since it had been so recent since the last curl-up. I rallied, sitting up. Shuddering, I remembered Blodgett’s questions about the missing knife. Was this what he was after? But Carrie’s mom had said Wayne had been shot, and Blodgett later confirmed it.
I reached for my phone and dialed Edna Torgensen. Abruptly, I slammed the receiver back to the cradle, jabbing my finger in the process. I’d forgotten to dial *67. More importantly, the police obviously weren’t disclosing the fact that a knife had been involved, if indeed it had. Did I really want to start floating around the idea that I had inside information on Wayne’s murder?
I needed to slow down, think this through very carefully.
Hands shaking, I picked up the paper. Another sonnet—the thin, slanting calligraphy looking like a colony of aberrant spiders had trailed black ink across it.
Unable to concentrate, my attention skittered back to the knife. Had Carrie left it? Did she murder Wayne and plant the knife to implicate me? But if Wayne had been shot wouldn’t she (or whomever) have left the shotgun? And where did she get the knife? When he ran from my office, had Wayne been able to evade the cops long enough to fling it somewhere, then gone back to retrieve it later? It was possible, I supposed, but hardly likely.
Or was someone else involved? Someone ready to pick up where Wayne had left off. Was he acting on Wayne’s behalf or his own? One fact stood out, undeniable and chilling: it was someone I knew. Someone close to me with access to both my home and my car. Someone, maybe, whom I trusted.
Back to the sonnet. I did the F and U decoding thing again.
My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
Th’ uncertain sickly appetite to please:
My reason the Physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve,
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now Reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with ever-more unrest,
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are,
At random from the truth vainly expressed.
For I have sworn thee faire, and thought thee bright,
Who are as black as hell, as dark as night.
Yeesh.
Unfortunately, the clearer it became, the freakier it seemed. I didn’t understand every line, but once again themes emerged. Love—a crazy, diseased lust feeding on itself, repellant to its captive—had driven the writer insane. Abandoned by reason, he raged with fever, enslaved to the demonic mistress he both lusted for and despised.
Other phrases, “desire is death,” “my thoughts and discourse are as madmen’s,” and “black as hell, dark as night” needed no explanation.
Shakespeare was one scary dude.
I could feel the mastery of the language he wielded like a weapon, but in my present situation, could only recoil from the harsh brutality of the poetry. Why anyone, Marshall included, would have made a study of these ravings was beyond me.
Why would Marshall…?
Questions stirred the acid in my stomach, making me retch. I ran to the bathroom. Here, my past came in handy, having taught me how to slide across wide expanses of tile when unexpectedly puking. Even still, I barely made it to the toilet in time. Must be rusty.
But I could make up for that.
The trick to doing things you know you’ll regret is to do them fast. I made it to The Bear Cub in less than ten minutes. More than enough time to have reconsidered, but I couldn’t concentrate with the radio blasting. I turned it up twice.
Cubs hadn’t changed. Its décor fell on the cheap side of typical Northern Wisconsin rustic. A mounted deer head, dusty Christmas ligh
ts twining through his antlers, hung lopsided over the cash register. A few feet over curled a stuffed muskie, its spike-toothed mouth gaping in protest at the wayward steel dart dangling just behind its gills. Bets had been placed as to when the dart would fall, but it’d been seven years since Moby Muskie had been harpooned, and the dart hung tough. A shame. I had money on that bet.
I passed by my usual stool—a mental contortion attempted in order to maintain the pretense that I wasn’t really here, wasn’t doing what I was obviously doing—and took a seat at the end of the bar. I also ignored the various “look what the cat dragged in” comments from the regulars. None of my so-called friends had bothered to call after I’d gotten sober, so I didn’t even spare a blink in their direction. I wasn’t here for them anyway.
Jerry ambled down the bar, automatically snagging a frosted stein from the cooler and aiming it under the tap. I shook my head at him.
“Just a diet pop, Jerry,” I said. My hands shook, leaving a sweaty smear on the polished counter.
He made a face but complied, plunking it down in front of me and snatching up my two bucks. He moved off to the register and then leaned against the back bar, watching me. Ignoring him, I stared at the corner TV programmed to ESPN.
The pop tasted like a laxative. I shoved it aside, and caught Jerry eyeballing me again.
“Gimme a beer, Jerry.” In for a penny. “And a shot.” In for a pound. I didn’t even have to specify; he poured the Leinenkugel into an iced mug, Jack Daniels riding shotgun.
It didn’t take long. It felt like forever. Spit pooled in my mouth during the wait, excited about coming attractions, ready for action. Jerry set the mug down, the shot glass next to it. I reached, but he didn’t let go of either.
“You sure?” he said, forcing eye contact.
I’d never liked Jerry. He insisted he was six foot, when he was at least an inch shorter than my five-seven; I hated people who played with facts. I couldn’t stand the pencil-thin mustache he sported under his sharp nose. If you can’t grow a real one, don’t bother.
And I really, really didn’t need him adding to the chorus of anticipatory remorse that hummed in my head.
“I ordered it, didn’t I?”
Shrugging off my snottiness, he released his hold but kept staring. I didn’t want to betray the aching need that pulsed through my very cells, twisting my gut and mind into a fever of craving. I didn’t want to betray the riot of desire incited by the scent of hops.
And then it didn’t matter.
The whiskey was fire, the beer smooth ice. My eyes closed in relief as every cell in my body said, “ahh!” Muscles I didn’t know were taut instantly relaxed. Shame hovered, ready to settle in, but like any good alcoholic, I drank past that. When I opened my eyes, Jerry was at the other end of the bar, wiping glasses.
I kept drinking. Jerry, his face a careful blank, kept pouring. At some point, Angie, an old “friend,” ambled over and struck up a conversation. Tried to, that is.
“So, where ya been?”
Before my world had caved in, we were best friends. We talked almost daily, usually at Cubs, but if not there, then on the phone. She’d known details about my love life, feuds at work, my family history—all of it. And I knew hers. It was Angie whom I’d called the night I was trying to decide if I should give AA a try or just hop in the tub and slice my wrists. She brought a case of Heineken over, and I made it through the night. I also made it to AA—hungover and alone—but not until the next day.
I’d called her three times in those shaky first weeks, getting her voice mail each time. She never called back.
“You got that fifty you owe me?” I asked.
“Geez! What crawled up your butt and died? I was just trying to say hi.”
“You said it.” I turned away.
“Listen, I meant to call you, but you know how it goes. I just figured we’d catch up when you got back.”
“Got back?” Incredulous, I faced her. “Angie, I wasn’t on vacation! I was getting sober.”
“Yeah, well, here you are. So, what’s the big deal?”
Only the arrival of a fresh drink kept me from smacking her. I swallowed a cocktail of beer and anger, and Angie drifted away, miffed. After that, only Jerry entered my sphere, exchanging beer for cash and keeping his “significant eye contact” to himself.
Drunk hit hard and fast, a not unexpected sucker-punch dealt from the bottle, by-passing tipsy and going straight to blasted. Things got blurry.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I
woke up somewhere. Somewhere else.
A searing beam of sunlight sliced the fragile barrier of my eyelids, stabbing my brain mercilessly. The parts of my body that weren’t throbbing felt as hollow and dry as a scraped-out gourd. Very slowly, I looked around.
I laid in somebody’s bed, legs twisted and trapped in a blue and green comforter, a tarnished, hungover Goldilocks. A generic, masculine room—neat, clean, and spare. It told nothing of its owner.
Crap.
At least I was still dressed, although my day-old clothes smelled of musk and stale cigarette smoke. Bile roiled in my stomach, rising in a thin, burning crest. I closed my eyes, swallowed, determined not to cherry-top this latest experience by barfing in the somebody’s bed.
After a few minutes, I felt safe enough to crawl out of bed and venture out the door. I found myself on a loft landing looking down into a familiar, rustic living area.
Marshall’s.
The cabin was quiet with no evidence of its owner, except for a rumpled blanket and a pillow that bore witness I’d slept alone. Gratitude made my head pound.
The rich smell of dark roast drew me into the small kitchen, where I shakily poured a mug. A quick plunder of the cabinets failed to unearth any aspirin or its chemical cousins, so I took off at a dead shuffle, aiming for the bathroom.
A Pavlov-reflex at the sight of the toilet almost made me throw up, but I knew if I did, my head would split open, leaking brain-yolk all over Marshall’s shiny ceramic tile. The thought of “brain-yolk” made me puke anyway.
I squirted toothpaste on my finger and rubbed it around my mouth. After spitting, I leaned over the sink and guzzled about a quart of water straight from the tap. I’d probably throw that up, too, but I felt better.
Back in the living room, I dropped on the couch, pulling the quilt over my legs. I caught the scent of Marshall’s cologne, spicy and crisp, and the terror I’d felt yesterday reading the sonnet swelled up inside me.
Could Marshall be the one sending the sonnets?
He’d freely admitted that he’d studied English literature in college, specifically Shakespeare. Would he have been that open if he was the one sending me mutilated dolls and twisted sixteenth-century poetry? But what about the knife? Since the police never found it, it made sense that Marshall, first down the hall after the police gave chase, could have found and pocketed Wayne’s knife. I shivered, sweating and chilled at the same time.
Realizing I had an opportunity that might not come along again, I forced myself off the couch. Marshall’s décor was certainly rustic, but I didn’t see any rifles—at least not out in the open.
Before starting my search, I peeked out the window. Marshall’s car was missing; I only hoped I would hear it when he returned. Not surprisingly, the coat closet held coats, boots, and an assortment of fishing poles leaning against the back corner. A little more unexpected, and decidedly more disturbing, was the axe that balanced between two nails driven into the side wall.
But no rifles. Maybe Marshall was one of the few men in Northern Wisconsin who didn’t own firearms. If so, then he couldn’t have killed Wayne.
A thought occurred, and after another peek outside, I headed back upstairs to the bedroom. Found the gun cabinet. My heart dropped into my stomach, acid eating away at it. The closet itself was surprisingly deep. It had to be. Marshall’s business suits, dress shirts and slacks and a line of shoes ran on either side, but the main purpose of t
he closet—or, indeed, of the entire cabin—seemed to be to enshrine the massive gun safe pushed against the back wall.
Nearly as tall as me and over three feet wide, it looked like it could hold an arsenal of weapons. Pretty fancy, too. A shiny black exterior contrasted with the gold etchings of manufacturer’s name and a wildlife scene depicting a stately buck. Dead-center in the door was a gold-plated, five-spoke wheel handle that you had to spin to unlock the dang thing. It was a monster of a gun safe.
Locked, too. No way a jumbo paperclip was getting into this thing. Besides, having no clue what Wayne had been shot with, I didn’t know what to look for. A door slammed. Taking a deep breath, I left the bedroom.
Marshall stood in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He turned at my entrance and smiled warmly, eyes crinkling.
“Well, look who’s up,” he said. He gestured toward the small kitchen table covered with plastic grocery bags. “I wasn’t sure if you could manage food, but I didn’t have anything decent anyway, so I ran to the store.”
“You didn’t have to bother,” I said. Nausea made the thought of food repugnant.
Still shaking and not able to meet his smiling eyes, I sat at the table. For the first time, I tried to dredge up the details of how I ended up ensconced in Marshall’s bed to begin with. My head hurt. It refused to provide information about the previous night. I wanted to know, but didn’t want to ask. Didn’t, in fact, want to admit even to myself that I’d had a blackout. Shame poured in, flooding my soul, making me tremble. I covered my eyes, not wanting Marshall to see me cry. Luckily, he was moving back and forth putting the food away, whistling quietly.
He plunked a bottle of Excedrin next to my elbow and reached over to tousle my hair. That hurt.
The Enemy We Know Page 17
