Uncorked

by Lois Greiman

  “Answer me, God damn it or—”

  “Rivera!” Louder now. A little more aggressive.

  Rivera pulled back and drew a hard breath through his nostrils, though his gaze never shifted from mine. “Everything’s fine,” he said.

  “All right.” The guard was as big as a boulder but not quite as cuddly. “See that it stays that way.”

  Rivera stared at me, opened his fist with an obvious effort and let his fingers curl softly against the worn counter, but his knuckles looked suspiciously pale.

  “If you want to keep the asshole alive, you’ll tell me the truth.” His tone was almost civil now, but his eyes were predatory.

  “It wasn’t him,” I said.

  He smiled. I knew it was for the guard’s benefit. But if that esteemed individual thought the expression looked friendly, he needed to be reintroduced to the human race.

  “You’re lying,” Rivera said.

  “I’m not.”

  “It’s always the boyfriend.”

  “Not this time. He’s out of town.”

  He snorted, incredulous, head jerking back just a little so that the tendons in his neck jerked tight. “Don’t tell me he’s still in Belarus?”

  “How did you know he was—”

  “You’re shitting me!” He leaned forward again, hand fisting. “He’s still flitting around Europe while you’re getting—”

  The guard stepped toward us. Rivera raised a placating hand and pulled his gaze from me as if it were being dragged through sledge. “Just…” He unlocked his teeth. “Give me a damn minute.”

  Boulder widened his stance. “Listen—”

  “Just one minute,” Rivera said, then turned his head and lowered his voice. “Please.”

  Boulder scowled but backed away.

  Rivera returned his attention to me. “Just tell me who did it.”

  I raised my chin, ready to deny everything, but murder flared in his eyes like summer lightning and the truth seemed like a refreshing alternative.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Swear to God it wasn’t Carlton?”

  “Yes.”

  He inhaled, nostrils flaring. I squirmed. “Tell me what happened.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I—”

  “Tell me now or Carlton will wish he’d never seen your fucking legs.” His eyes dipped, and although he couldn’t see past the counter above my lap, his eyes fired up again. “And if that asshole has any balls at all, that’s going to take a hell of a lot.”

  I was holding my breath. His gravelly tone and enraged expression vowed vengeance.

  It was barbaric. It was disgusting. I had never in my life wanted to jump him more.

  “Tell me,” he repeated.

  I cleared my throat. The memories burned like acid, but I tried to ignore the fear and push through to the facts. “I bought gas and a car wash.”

  A muscle bulged like an angry python in his jaw. I watched it and swallowed.

  “When I returned to my car, someone was in the backseat.”

  Except for the slightest tremor, he sat perfectly still. “Tell me you killed the son of a bitch.”

  “I—”

  “Tell me you killed him, McMullen.” His voice was low and steady, evenly modulated, devoid of emotion, but somehow that only made the tension more palpable.

  “No. I…” I shook my head, struggling. “I kicked him, though…in the face, I think.” I paused to clear my throat, to breathe, to gather my courage. “The door popped open. He fell out.” I managed a shrug. It wasn’t easy. “I never saw him after that.”

  He drew a deep breath as if pulling in calmness, as if sorting through his lists of questions to find the most pertinent ones. “Had you locked your car?”

  I scowled, barely noticing that the other men had begun to file out of the room. “When I got—”

  “Before you went to pay…” He paused momentarily as if gathering patience. “Did you have the Saturn locked?”

  “Yes. I mean…” This was the hard part. If Rivera had told me once, he’d told me half a trillion times to lock everything. If he had his way, chastity belts would be the new look for fall. “I was sure I had. I—”

  “You were sure?” His fingers twitched with tension. “Or you think you were sure?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” The memories were overwhelming me, drowning me. “The fact—”

  “It does matter.” His voice broke. "It matters to me." His calm shattered for a second, but he drew a steadying breath and slowly lifted his hand to the glass between us.

  I couldn’t help but do the same. Our fingers almost met, almost touched.

  “Jack…” My voice was no more than a murmur of emotion, but he drove me back to practicality,

  “It matters,” he said. “Think back. What were you wearing?”

  “What difference—”

  “Recreate it, McMullen. Think it through.”

  I sunk into his eyes.

  “A dress? Slacks?”

  I swallowed, remembering my skirt twisted around my thighs. “An ivory skirt. Navy blue blouse.”

  Emotion flared in his eyes but he nodded, holding himself in tight restraint. “You were on your way to…” He clenched his fist. “A date?”

  “No. Not really. I was—” A sudden memory caught me. “I did lock it. I remember. I was getting out. I dropped my keys and bent to get them. The kid behind me…” Jealousy and anger burned in his eyes in sufficient amounts to make me decide to withhold the story of the wolf whistle. “I picked them up by the remote. The button was right under my thumb. I’m sure I locked it.”

  He nodded brusquely. “When you got back, was there any sign that the door had been tampered with?”

  I shook my head. “Not that I noticed. But I wasn’t looking. I mean—”

  “How about later?”

  “What?”

  “Did you notice anything later?”

  I shook my head.

  “When you leave here, I want you to check.”

  “Time’s up, Rivera,” the guard said.

  “Look for any new scratches, gouges. Any sign that force was used to pry open the door,” he said, rising to his feet.

  I did the same. “Why? What difference does it make? I can’t—” I began, then fell into his eyes. “If there’s no sign of entry, it was a professional.”

  “What did he strangle you with?”

  I put my hand to my neck, feeling nauseous, but he pushed on.

  “Did he have a rope? A cord?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t—”

  “You do know,” he insisted.

  “It’s…” I stopped suddenly as another fresh memory stormed in. I shook my head at the onslaught. “His hands were empty.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. They jerked up when he fell out. They were pale." I scowled. "Or he was wearing gloves. Rubber gloves. But there was nothing in them.”

  “Maybe he dropped the garrote in the backseat.”

  “I don’t think so. I would have seen it.” I barely breathed the words.

  “If you’re right—”

  “He used something that was already there.” I finished the thought for him.

  “The seat belt, maybe.”

  “Which means…”

  We stared at each other.

  “He didn’t plan to kill me.”

  He nodded once, expression unreadable.

  “Just warn me, maybe,” I reasoned. “But I kicked him and he got mad.”

  For a second I would have sworn I saw pride fire up in his eyes, but then it was gone.

  “Is Elaine still in Matamata?”

  The guard stepped up behind Rivera. “Time’s up.”

  I nodded. “But how did you know—”

  “Go stay with her,” he said. His voice had gone very soft, very low, almost pleading.

  “What kind of therapist would I be if I ran out every time things got a little…
” I stopped, mind jumping. “Andrews is in intensive care," I said. Or at least he had been when I'd called that morning. "So it couldn't be him, but-"

  “Take what you know to Captain Kindred. Don’t do anything on your own.”

  “But he owned an auto repair place in Commerce." My late night communions with Google hadn't been a complete waste of time. "There were allegations that it was a chop shop. So he could easily have had an employee who would be able to-"

  “Let’s go, Rivera.” The guard nudged him from behind, but he remained where he was.

  “Do you hear me?” he asked. “Forget it.”

  “He would have had the tools to get into my car and…" I paused, mind spinning. "But maybe I'm looking at this upside down.” I was excited now, talking fast. "Maybe the same guy who shot Andrews was after me. Maybe he was trying to keep me from learning the truth. To make sure I didn't-"

  “Dammit McMullen! Tell Kindred you want police protection. Do you hear me?"

  “Rivera…" The guard nudged him again. “Don’t make this difficult.”

  “This isn’t something to mess with. It’s out of your league.”

  “If I could find out who attacked me maybe I could link it to Andrews's hit and prove that you're-”

  “Fuck it!” he swore, leaning in. “Listen to me.”

  “Code red,” the guard said into his radio.

  “Don’t get messed up in this,” Rivera growled. “Leave it alone. Do you hear me? Leave it alone.”

  “Trouble in the visiting room!”

  “Or if Andrews's did order the hit on me, that could shed light on your case. I mean-"

  “Fuck that! Fuck the case.”

  “Rivera!” the guard warned. “I’m giving you one more chance.”

  “Fuck chances,” he snarled, swinging toward the guard. “I want to talk to—” But before he could finish his sentence, he was zapped with a Taser.

  Chapter 20

  If God wanted me to be brave, why’d he give me so many legs?

  —Harlequin, the thinking girl’s companion

  For the remainder of the day, I considered what I had learned about the Backseat Bastard: He had left no marks on the door of my Saturn when he broke in, which implied that he was good at the task. But did that mean he was a criminal or a cop or neither? He had come to threaten me, but not necessarily to kill me. He had a temper, but he was cautious. He’d worn a mask of sorts, and the more I thought about it, the more I believed he had been wearing rubber gloves. Did that mean he was a known criminal? And if so, did that even narrow down the field?

  In the end, I called the hospital again. The bubbly soul on the other end of the line was thrilled to tell me he had been moved out of intensive care and could accept visitors in room 324. I digested that news slowly, changed into a pair of jeans and a baggy T like one in a trance and drove west, knuckles white against the steering wheel.

  I turned onto Beverly Boulevard, took a left on George Burns Road and parked in the lot beside a monstrosity with a wavy metal exterior. Once there I sat unmoving in the Saturn for what seemed forever. But finally I unlocked my knees, quieted my weak bladder and shambled into the hospital.

  It didn't take me nearly as long as I had hoped to find Jackson Andrews's private room. I stood in the doorway, heart in my throat, looking inside. He was lying in bed, sipping juice from a bendy straw and chuckling at something he was watching out of sight. I could hear a television laugh track. His right hand, complete with IV, rested on the remote. It took a matter of seconds before his gaze shifted to mine.

  Life stood still around me. Only my heart continued to beat.

  "Ms. Christina McMullen, PhD," he said finally, and zapped the TV into silence.

  I stood frozen to the spot.

  He smiled. The swaddling around his head looked very white against his dark skin. He was a little leaner than I remembered, but he was still James Trivette handsome. He even grinned like Chuck Norris's sidekick. "How nice of you to come by."

  I didn't respond. Couldn't.

  "Come on in," he said and motioned with his free hand. "I won't bite."

  It took every ounce of courage I had to step through that door, even more to approach his bed.

  He raised his chin a little and narrowed his eyes, studying me in the harsh, overhead lights. "You look like you've had a hard day, Christina McMullen."

  I said nothing.

  "What happened to your face?"

  I couldn't seem to force myself to speak.

  He sighed, smile dimming a little. "It wasn't me."

  "What?" My voice sounded rusty, like an old hinge too long unused.

  "You're looking for someone to blame for your current troubles. But it wasn't me."

  I had almost forgotten his singsong voice, his eyes that never seemed to blink. The first time I had met him I had attributed it to drugs. But I was beginning to believe he didn't need a hallucinogenic to be spooky weird.

  His lips lifted a little as I stared at him. "I've been in a hospital bed longer than those bruises have been on your pretty face," he said.

  I swallowed my bile. There was something about being flattered by the man who had kidnapped my best friend that made my stomach clench. "Who'd you hire?"

  His dark brows rose slightly beneath the white bandages.

  "Who'd you hire to do this?" I asked and lifted a hand vaguely toward my face.

  He shook his head, smiling wistfully. "I'm certain I seem like a likely culprit. But you're a smart girl. If you think about it I believe you'll realize the likelihood that our assailants…" He motioned to his bandaged head. "…may very well be one and the same. Amusing isn't it, that we have a mutual enemy."

  I shook my head, more than willing to deny anything he said, but he continued.

  "I can understand why you would choose to disbelieve me, Christina. But the truth is this…" The faraway look was amplified in his eyes. "I no longer tell falsehoods, for I have found Christ."

  I blinked at him and he laughed.

  "I fear your beau may be just as skeptical as you."

  I stared at him blankly, though I probably should have been able to follow his logic.

  "Lieutenant Rivera," he said. "I believe I have him to thank for this opportunity to rest and rejuvenate."

  I shook my head. "He didn't do it."

  "Then why is he being detained at MCJ?"

  I felt myself pale. The fact that he knew Rivera's whereabouts made me want to vomit. "He didn't do it," I rambled. "I know you think he did but I swear to you-"

  "I forgive him," he said.

  I narrowed my eyes, calmed my breathing, and tried to articulate a question.

  He smiled. "Once upon a time I was an extremely deviant person. A despicable person," he said. "When I think of the lives I have ruined…" He shook his head then brightened. "But that's all in the past. I have paid my dues to society and some day I will have to explain myself to a higher court. A celestial court. But that time has not yet come. God has saved me for a bigger-"

  "Rivera didn't do it," I repeated.

  He laughed. "You may be right, Christina McMullen. But you see, it doesn't matter. I will not seek retribution. That was the old man. The new man has learned to lay down the sword, to turn the other cheek. Unfortunately…" His smile dimmed a little. "Not all my former disciples have seen the light."

  "You think one of your friends did this to you?"

  "As I said, it doesn't matter. To err is human. To forgive, divine. I'm hoping for the divine, Christina McMullen."

  "Who? Who did it?" I asked and took a step toward his bed. "Do you know an officer named Joel Coggins? Do you think he could have been involved? Or was it someone who worked in your chop-"

  He laughed. "You are much like I once was. Intense. Focused. Angry." He tightened his left hand into a fist then loosened it against the powder blue coverlet. "But anger is the devil's doorway. Do not go there."

  "Someone framed Rivera," I said. "Someone tried to strangle me
in a car wash."

  "In a car wash." He sounded introspective and maybe a little sad.

  "Who was it?"

  He shook his head. "I've no way of knowing, Christina. But he who has great capacity for evil, also has great capacity to do good."

  "Who are you talking about?" I demanded but in that instant a nurse stepped through the door behind him.

  "Is this a good time for your sponge bath, Mr. Andrews?" She was blonde and pretty, with a light in her eyes that suggested she had no idea she was about to bathe a man who would just as soon kill her as speak to her.

  "Never better," he said, then shifted his gaze back to me. "I will pray for you, Christina McMullen," he said.

  I woke up hours later in the dead of night.

  My heart was pounding. So was my front door, or so I thought. But in a minute I realized it wasn’t the door at all, it was the phone ringing beside my bed. I sat in the darkness waiting for my breath to come in a more even cadence, pondering whether I should answer.

  My hand shook when I lifted the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Doc.”

  I sat frozen, imagining a half-dozen crazed killers on the end of the line. Harlequin blinked at me, looking worried. I should make him quit reading the headlines.

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s Micky.”

  “Micky?” My voice probably sounded a little strained. But that’ll sometimes happen when you've just been prayed for by a homicidal lunatic.

  “Yeah. You okay?”

  “Sure.” I reached out to reassure Harley. But he was already snoring softly, eyes twitching. “Sure, I’m fine.”

  “You sort of sound like you’re about to have a heart attack.”

  “I don’t usually get calls in the middle of the night.” To my own ears, I sounded kind of pissy. But that’s how it is when I’m angry…or awake.

  “The middle of the night. Hell,” he said and laughed. “It’s not even eleven yet.”

  “Oh, well…” I glanced at my wrist. Still nothing. “I had a busy day.”

  “Really? Your kid get you up at five A.M., too?”

  “What’s going—” I began, but premonition struck suddenly. “You haven’t shot someone again, have you?”

  He laughed. “Holy shit, Doc, you make me sound like a fucking…sorry…” Ever since Jamel had come to live with him he’d been trying to clean up his language, at least while his son was within hearing range. “Frickin’ gang banger. No. I haven’t shot anyone. I just thought I'd give you a call. Make sure you were all right.”