Whittaker 01 The Enemy We Know (23 page)

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.

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 decor 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 the 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.

“
You’re gonna live,” he said, apparently thinking the physical aspect of my hangover caused my distress. I didn’t enlighten him.

Instead I worked at pulling myself together, fumbling weakly with the cap.
Friggin’ child proof…
He took it away, popping the top with ease. But I forgave him when he handed over two pills and a glass of orange juice.

“
You were pretty wasted last night, huh?” He joined me at the table, opening a pastry box. My nose had a schizophrenic episode, simultaneously loving and hating the sugary smell of coffee cake. My stomach was clearer, rolling ominously.

“
I guess so,” I answered weakly. “Uh, thanks for picking me up.” I could assume that much since my car had been nowhere in sight when I looked outside.

I must have guessed correctly, because he nodded and mumbled “you’re welcome” through a full mouth. Swallowing, he said, “Almost didn’t happen though. Next time you call, stay on the phone long enough to tell me where you’re at.”

I just didn’t have enough functioning brain cells to pull off the bluff. “What do you mean?”

“
Don’t remember, huh? I’m not surprised, as blasted as you were. You called me about one saying something about Wayne—that’s how I knew it was you—and saying “why?” Couldn’t really catch that part. Anyway, I tried to get you to tell me where you were ‘cause you were in
no
condition to be on the roads, but you mumbled that I should do something anatomically impossible to myself—I’m paraphrasing here—and dropped the phone. Luckily, somebody passing by picked it up and told me you were at The Bear Club.”

“
Cub,” I muttered.

“
Whatever. Anyway, by the time I show up, you were all happy and surprised to see me. So that worked out well. And you very nicely refrained from throwing up in my car.”

“
Did you bring the ice cream bucket?” An unexpected smile bubbled up at the memory.

“
Forgot it. And I didn’t have to lose my keys either. You came willingly.” His smile was decidedly more erotic, and I flushed, making my head throb in triple-time.

“
So what happened, Letty?” He turned serious on me. Serious and gentle.
Could I trust it?
Could I trust
him
?

“
It just… got to be too much. It kind of caved in, all at once. But I’m okay now. This won’t affect my work.”

“
No, of course not. I didn’t think it would. I expect that’s what set Wayne off.”

“
What did?”

“
You’re a fighter. You don’t give up. That can be an insult to a certain type of man,” he leaned back in his chair. His smile stretched like warm, sweet taffy. “To others, it’s a challenge.”

“
A challenge?” I swallowed. “So, is all this character analysis part of your supervisory duties?”

“
Oh, no. I came up with this on my free-time. Just trying to be helpful.”

“
Uh-huh. Okay, then. As long as you’re being so helpful, how about getting me to my car?”

He sighed regretfully. “I suppose. You sure you don’t want breakfast?” he said, and then laughed at my expression. Maybe he
was
evil enough to be a killer.

A half-hour later, Marshall dropped me off outside Cubs, where my car, abandoned and forlorn, had waited out the night. Nothing had been disturbed. Of course, if Marshall
was
the Shakespeare stalker, he’d be crazy to vandalize my car when he’d be the prime suspect. On the other hand, my Shakespeare stalker
was
crazy, so that meant Marshall could be the killer.
So I could clearly
not
choose the wine in front of me…

I was having
Princess Bride
flashbacks.

After making sure my car started, he waved, and we drove off in opposite directions.

When I got home, I found Blodgett’s business card sticking out of my door frame. On the back, he’d written “Call me” with his cell phone number. I’d forgotten that I’d called Blodgett before unwrapping the knife. The
murder
weapon. The weapon Blodgett had questioned me about, that I’d denied knowledge of, that was now covered in what I could only assume was Wayne’s blood. With Blodgett’s bloodhound instincts, he’d probably scented the incriminating evidence through the door. Would he believe me if I told him the real killer had left it as a little present? In my glove box? Wisconsin didn’t have the death penalty, but I had no illusions about my ability to survive prison. My heart thudded dully. Ma was right. Cops could get you killed.