Whittaker 01 The Enemy We Know (22 page)

I was right. He was pissed.

Robert didn’t even wait to talk at the club, but came into the clinic. Lisa left him cooling his heels in the lobby until my client, the last for the day, finished up.

By the time I got up to the front, word had spread, and we had an audience. Both Marshall and Mary Kate loitered around Lisa’s desk; Mary Kate, with an armful of files, at least pretended to be working. Marshall simply leaned against the wall eyeing the lobby, shirt sleeves rolled up, a corporate bad boy.

Robert stood with his arms crossed and lips so tight that if he kissed me I’d get a paper-cut. Which he didn’t seem inclined to do.

After sending my client off for the weekend, I had Robert follow me back to my office. As I passed by, Marshall’s right eye twitched in a wink. I hoped Robert missed it, but his scowl deepened significantly.

“
Who was that?” was the first thing out of his mouth, proving he had.

“
My boss. We’re all a little jumpy about angry men showing up unannounced. Why are you here, Robert?”
Now
I pretended.

“
Don’t be coy. How dare you give my name to the police? I would think a
therapist
“—he practically spit the word—“would have some concept of anonymity.”

Heat flushed up from my body, singeing my face, leaving my hands cold and clammy. I hated that he might be right. Still…

“
You were Wayne’s sponsor. I thought you would want to help find his murderer. Besides, what are you so worried about? Your precious reputation won’t be tarnished this far from home and you were, like, what? A hundred and fifty miles away, in another state?”

His eyes went from angry to skittish, darting away like a bumblebee on meth, red blotches breaking out across his face and throat. “It’s none of your business where I was. That’s not the point.”

“
So you
were
in town, huh? How come?”

Something thumped against the wall in Regina’s office next door.

“
I said that’s not the point! You had no business dragging my name into this mess.”

He was so obviously lying that I considered pushing the issue.
What had he been doing in town on a Wednesday night?
And with
whom
? But I couldn’t figure out how to do it without sounding either jealous or nosy. Anyway, I was sick of arguing.

“
Look, the police wanted to talk to someone who might know what was going on with Wayne in the last few days. I really thought you would be the best resource for that. It had nothing to do with our… history.” It was worth the bullshit just to shut him up.

He snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, whatever. You’re lucky I don’t plan on bringing this up at the club. Remember, ‘principles before personalities.’”

As he quoted the AA slogan at me, it was all I could do not to smack his face. He didn’t want to help solve the murder of his so-called AA buddy, but he could spout off about putting principles ahead of petty grievances to me. What an ass.

I had to put up with his sanctimonious crap for another five minutes before he finally let me maneuver him up to the front. Mary Kate had disappeared, although I suspected I could find her hunkered down in Regina’s office with her ear pressed against the thin wall. The thump while Robert and I argued had been a tad obvious. We’d have to talk.

Marshall was nowhere to be seen, so after I packed Robert off, I went looking for the boss. He was kicked back in his chair, feet propped on the desk when I cracked open his office door. He smiled as I walked in and took the chair across the desk from him.

“
You weren’t camped out in Regina’s office banging on the wall, were you?” I asked.

His brows drew together. “Is this a trick question?”

“
Never mind. It’s something I’ll have to talk to Mary Kate about.”

“
Oh. Mary Kate. Do I even want to know?”

“
I could be wrong, but she seems to have set up a listening post in Regina’s office.”

Marshall pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “She seems to be a little fuzzy on the concept of confidentiality. Why don’t I have Hannah take a run at it this time? It’s her turn.”

“
Sounds good.” I heaved myself up. “I’m takin’ off.”

“
You are?” He looked as if he wanted to say more, but I kept moving.

Regina’s office was empty when I went by, and Mary Kate was nowhere to be found. Lisa told me she’d left. I decided to go with Marshall’s plan: let Hannah deal with it.

Minutes later, as I climbed into my car, I debated whether I should go to a meeting or not. On the plus side, I wouldn’t have to worry about running into Wayne, but I really didn’t want to deal with Robert any more tonight, and I seriously didn’t want to see Sandra, whom I suspected was the reason for Robert’s midweek visit. He never drove in to see
me
in the middle of the week, but then I didn’t have sexercise equipment either.

Sighing, I shoved the key in the ignition. Inexplicably, I shivered, muscles taut as a sense of foreboding swept over me. I held very still, scanning the parking lot, unable to locate the danger that my gut told me existed. Dread curdled my stomach as I raised my eyes to the rearview mirror, certain Wayne would be staring at me from the back seat—an urban legend killer-zombie.

The mirror was twisted—cranked up, tilted sideways.

The same angle as on the day of the rat. My eyes skittered to the glove box. I reached for it, then pulled my hand back, flesh crawling as though a swarm of ants writhed under the skin. I looked toward the clinic, willing Marshall to come out. He ignored the ESP-instant message, so I stared at the glove box for a few more minutes, sweating and shaking.

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.

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 whoever) 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 decor fell on the cheap side of typical Northern Wisconsin rustic. A mounted deer head, dusty Christmas lights 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.