Middle of Nowhere (44 page)

“Daffy?!” Boldt called out, hearing a man’s voice in the background. A car sounded its horn from behind him— he had unintentionally slowed to forty miles an hour. He sped back up.

She said calmly, “So, I’ve caught a ride with a really nice guy, and he’s taking me clear in to Poulsbo to meet you, even though it’s out of his way.”

“Poulsbo? You’re with him!?” an incredulous Boldt asked her defiantly. Anger rose in him.

Only then did he recall the message Liz had delivered—the phone call he had turned down. It seemed every time he turned around, he was to blame for something.

“I know,” she answered, reading from her own script, ignoring his. “It’s really nice of him, isn’t it?”

“Poulsbo,” Boldt whispered again into the phone. “It’ll take me an hour or two to get there unless I can get one of the news choppers. Jesus, Daffy!” SPD no longer owned its own helicopter, but leased time from one of three news stations that ran traffic choppers.

“Friends?” she said, still on her own script. “I thought it was just going to be the two of us. No . . . no .. .
you can bring your friends
if you want. . . I’d love to see them. No, it’s fine. It’ll be a great dinner. Bring them! I’m sure. . .. Really. . .. Okay. . .. See you in a few minutes. . ..”

The call did not go dead; Boldt could hear the two voices, but at a distance. Daphne had apparently pretended to end the call, but had left the line open. Boldt drove with the phone pressed to his ear.

Friends?
Boldt thought. She wanted backup. She intended to collar Flek herself. Sanchez was her case, and she intended to clear it. Perhaps this was more about her being a police officer than a psychologist. But where in Poulsbo? When? How was Boldt supposed to orchestrate this from miles across the Sound without putting her at risk?

He left the cellular phone line open still held to his ear and simultaneously used his car’s police radio to ask Dispatch to place an emergency land line call to LaMoia’s hospital room. He quickly explained Daphne’s situation to the man, leaving out his own troubles. “I figured you, of all people,” Boldt told him, “would know the best bar and restaurant in a place like Poulsbo. ‘Cause I haven’t got a clue where she’s headed.”

“Give me five,” LaMoia requested through a jaw wired shut.

When the radio called his name a moment later, and Boldt acknowledged, LaMoia said, “The Liberty Bay Grill. It’s the only game in town.”

Flek popped two beers and handed Daphne hers. “Quicker than stopping,” he said. “We’re both in a hurry.”

“Yeah, thanks,” she said, accepting the beer. She didn’t like the taste of beer; if they had stopped for a drink it would have been red wine, a Pine Ridge Merlot or Archery Summit Pinot Noir, something above this dime store drool. She gagged some of it down for the sake of appearances.

“Tell me about your brother,” she said. “What was he like?”

The wide car cut through the night following the road to Lemolo and Poulsbo. Flek downed half the beer before the first minute was up.

The whirring of the tires was the only sound for the next few miles. The longer the silence, the more difficult. She sipped some beer.

“He was the best,” he said, as if the minutes had not passed.

“The Black Hole,” she said. “There are times you can’t think. You can’t sleep. You’re not hungry.”

He looked a little surprised. He downed more of the beer.

“Have you experienced that?” she asked. “Insomnia. Loss of appetite.”

“No appetite for
food,”
he said, his eyes sparkling.
“Other things . . . sure.”
He killed the beer and reached for another. Daphne had barely taken an inch out of her own can. She did the honors, popping the next for him.

“You’re not a cop, are you?”

There were few questions that could freeze her solid, but this one managed. In all, perhaps a second or two lapsed, but to Daphne it felt like minutes. She coughed out a guttural laugh, at which point Flek joined her. A pair of nervous people chortling contagious laughter at a silver windshield. Oncoming cars and trucks passing with that familiar, if not disturbing,
whoosh,
that rocked the car side to side. Flek steered with one hand lightly on the wheel. Daphne kept one eye on the road, ready to grab that wheel.

“Well, good,” he said, when she didn’t answer. “Pass me the Gold. It’s in the box.” He pointed to the glove box.

Cuervo Gold Tequila. Half empty. Or was it half full on this night—she couldn’t be sure about that. He downed two large gulps from the bottle and offered her some. She declined as politely as possible. He wrestled with his left pocket, lifting his butt off the car seat to get a hand down deep, and came out with a plastic aspirin container, meant to carry ten for the road. It carried small capsules instead—she couldn’t identify the drugs in the limited dash light.

“I won’t bother to offer,” he said, dropping two down his throat and chasing them with the beer. He clicked the aspirin traveler shut with the one hand, in a move that was far too familiar to him. He slipped the container back into his pocket.

Possession,
she thought, knowing they now had charges that would support his arrest.

He said, “Does it bother you?”

“Only that you’re driving,” she answered.

He laughed. “I think I can handle it.”

“Does it make it any better?” she asked pointedly.

“Let’s not go there, okay,
Mom?
Session’s over, Doctor. Ten, fifteen minutes, the patient won’t care.” He added, “The patient won’t be here.”

“Then we’ve got ten minutes,” she suggested.

“Five is more like it. Let’s not for now.” He pulled on the beer, then stuffed it between his legs. “Remember, I’m doing you a favor here, going all the way to Poulsbo. Don’t push it.”

“I was offering to help, is all.”

“Yeah? Well, save it.” He drummed restless fingers on the top of the beer can in his crotch. “I’ve got all the help I need.”

“That’s temporary help,” she said, not giving ground.

“Depends how regular you are in administering the dosage, Doc! Ritalin. Prozac. They’ve tried it all on me, Doc. Started on me when I was eleven years old. You lift a couple toasters, they give you a pill. Wasn’t me who started this,” he said. Looking over at her, he added, “Oh . . . gee . . . am I scaring you? It’s you who wants to talk, not me.”

“It’s called a glow plug, isn’t it?” she asked. He looked a little surprised by her knowledge, but recovered quickly.

He sang, badly out of tune, “You . . . light up my life .. .” and laughed hotly, before putting out the fire with more beer.

“It won’t bring him back.”

“Shut up!” he roared. The car swerved, and Daphne felt weightlessness in the center of her stomach and a flutter in her heart. He shoved on the brakes and the car skidded to a stop on the side of the road. A pickup truck zoomed past, its horn cascading down the Doppler scale. “What the fuck business is it of yours?” he hollered, his eyes wild, spittle raining across the seat. “Jesus!” He drew on the beer again, leering. “Why can’t you just shut up about it!”

She glanced down at her purse.
The
gun, she thought. But suddenly, all felt calm within her. This was her domain: the wild frenzy of minds losing grip. This was the moment she had hoped for: the anger breaking loose and opening up a hole through which she might travel. In a perfectly calm voice she said, “You’re experiencing guilt over your brother’s death. You blame yourself. You’re torturing yourself.” She pointed to the beer. “You’re medicating yourself.” She hesitated. He was actually listening to her, though through elevated respiration, dilated eyes, and an increased heart rate, judging by the pulse in his neck. “You can do damage, you know, assuming that kind of responsibility for another. Don’t beat yourself up over this.”

He coughed out a sputter of disgust, turned his attention back to the road and floored the accelerator, fishtailing back out onto the pavement.

Daphne felt a penetrating calm. She was inside him now. They both knew it.

“What do you know about it?” he said.

“Do you think you’re the only person to experience grief and guilt? What you’re going through is a process. But you’re handling it wrong. Tell me about the guilt you feel.”

He waited a moment and said, “Pass the Gold.”

“No, I’m not going to. I don’t feel comfortable with that.” She wanted control. If he accepted her refusal then she had him right where she needed him.

“Yeah?” he said a little tentatively, “well, this is my car. Fuck you!” He stretched for the glove box, and Daphne blocked his effort. She could sense his fence-sitting; he was debating opening up to her.

“No,” she said. “It’s not the answer.”

They wrestled, though she didn’t put up much resistance. She wasn’t about to control him physically and didn’t want to start down that road. If he turned to physical violence, she had only the weapon to stop him.

He tripped the glove box and grabbed for the bottle.

She said, “Talk to me, Abby. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

Force of habit: Bring the subject closer by establishing rapport. Seek permission to use the subject’s first name. Befriend, don’t belittle. But she had slipped— there had been no introduction, no reason for her to know his name. She had trapped herself in an amateurish mistake, and she reeled with self-loathing.

On hearing his nickname, his head turned mechanically toward her, the road and the traffic there a distant thought. Daphne kept one eye trained out the windshield, her attention divided between her purse at her feet and the murderous rage in the driver’s eyes.

He looked her over through dazed eyes, a mind stunned by what he heard. She thought that perhaps there were gears spinning in there, perhaps only the violently loud rush of blood pulsing past his ears. He looked numb. Bewildered.

It all happened at once. His words disconnected as his mind sought to fill in the blanks. “Who . . . the fuck. . . are you?” His right hand dropped the bottle, his left took the wheel, and with one lunge, his fingers were locked around her throat and pressing her head against the door’s window. He was halfway across the seat, fingers twisting painfully in her hair and turning her head toward the dash, the car losing its track, the rear wheels yipping.

She saw her salvation lying in the bottom of the glove box. But she could not reach it, could not speak.

His strength consumed her. She reached forward, fingers wavering for purchase, but he’d stuffed her into the seat against the door and she couldn’t make it. Suddenly his knee was bracing the wheel, his left hand gone from it, and her window came down electronically, and her head thrust through the opening until fully out in the stinging dark rain. He let go her hair, grabbed hold of her left breast, squeezed and twisted until she screamed, turning with the pain. Just as he wanted.

The window moved up electronically, now choking her throat.

“Who the fuck are you?” he screamed. The window nudged up another fraction of an inch. Her windpipe would be crushed. She couldn’t manage more than a grunt. Her fingers danced closer to the glove box.

He must have been halfway across the seat and steering with his left hand, but he’d lost the accelerator in order to hold her there. The car slowed noticeably, and he headed for the side of the road.

Finally, she felt the soft plastic between her fingers. She hoisted the cool cup that she’d seen inside the glove box. It was blue. It was used to keep single cans of beer cold. She turned it, because she didn’t know if she had the lettering facing him.

She spun it, and shook it, and tried to grab his attention.

The window came down and he pulled her inside. She sucked for air, grabbed for her neck and massaged her throat.

On the cup was printed in white a single word:

ABBY

The car was pulled off the road, engine running. It smelled of exhaust and human sweat and tequila. Flek panted, glancing over at her and wondering what came next. Daphne’s face and hair were soaking wet, her neck a scarlet bruise. The windshield fogged as they sat there. Flek reached out and gently picked up the cool cup.