Blind Rage (29 page)

IT SEEMED TO TAKE FOREVER TO FIGHT HER WAY TO THE
surface. When Bernadette finally bobbed up, she was gasping and coughing up putrid water. She didn’t holler for help; it took every bit of energy to stay afloat. Her back and her lungs ached. Splashing madly with her arms, she made no progress in any direction; all she did was tread the cold water. Her limbs were starting to lose sensation, and she forced herself to stop thrashing around. Kicking her legs like a frog, she did a sloppy breaststroke to the edge of the small houseboat. Panting and shivering, she hung on to the wood trim of the
Good Enuf
while trying to throw her right leg up onto the deck.

“Hell,” she wheezed, her leg slipping off the edge and falling back into the water. Spasms of pain radiated across her back. Low to the river while she was standing on top of it, the deck now seemed insurmountably high. She felt as if she were trying to clamber up the sheer sides of a cruise ship. Something beneath the surface of the water brushed past her body, and she tried not to think about what it could be.

When she got to the deck on the other end of the boat, her fingers bumped up against a narrow horizontal bar. She locked her fist over it and brought her other hand around to pull her body in front of the ladder. It took every ounce of her remaining energy to set her feet on the ladder and climb up one rung and then another. Her numb foot slipped on the third rung, and she nearly fell backward into the river. Slowly, she returned her foot to the third rung and stepped hard, propelling herself up and out of the water. The impact of her body against the boards sent another ripple of pain across her back.

Dripping and cold, she stayed facedown on the
Good Enuf
. A wind blew across the deck, and she groaned into the wood. Shivering uncontrollably, she got on her knees and crawled to the patio doors of the houseboat. She reached up with one hand and pulled on the handle. Locked. She used the handle to pull herself to her feet. While she rested her forehead against the glass door, she thought about the walk back across the bridge. Between her sore back and her wet clothes, she’d never make it. She dipped her trembling hand into her soggy coat pocket and felt nothing. Her cell had been lost during her tumble into the water. It wouldn’t have worked anyway.

Another gust whipped across the deck of the boat, and she twined her arms around her shivering body. She wondered if she should peel off some of the wet clothing, then told herself that was a bad idea. She remembered something from a survival class taught at Quantico.
Paradoxical undressing.
That’s what they called it when hypothermia victims removed clothing even as they were freezing to death. She’d be damned if they were going to find her dead
and
naked.

Lifting her face off the patio door, she looked to the lighted windows of Matthew’s boat. She couldn’t go there for help. He was most likely the one who’d batted her into the river. What had he used to hit her? It felt like a concrete block.

She scanned the water’s edge for safer options. On the other side of the
Good Enuf
was a medium-size craft with two levels, both of them lit. Beyond that were two smaller boats that looked dark and vacant.

Hugging herself, she hobbled across the deck of the
Good Enuf
and stepped onto the dock. With the greatest of effort, she put one foot in front of the other and made it over to the double-decker houseboat, the
Three-Hour Tour
. Lighted plastic pumpkins stood sentry, one on each side of the entrance, and the door itself was plastered with cardboard cutouts of tarantulas. As she raised her fist to knock, she remembered her nightmare about spiders crawling over her while she beat against the door of a houseboat. Did that mean this was the wrong place to go for sanctuary?
Screw the dream,
she thought, and brought her fist down on the wood. She knocked again and yelled, “Hello? Is anyone home?” She heard a deadbolt being turned on the other side.

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 lift?” 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.