Middle Of Nowhere

CHAPTER 50

Daphne sat back in the front seat of the 1978 Eldorado, the wind knocked out of her-more from nerves than Flek's bad driving. This was not the pit stop for beer she'd had in mind. She caught a glimpse of their suspect through the crowded shelves of the gas station's mini-market as he grabbed a cold six-pack from a wall cooler. Within seconds she had her purse open and the cellular phone out, though her eyes remained on Flek who was already at the cash register under the sterile bluish glare of tube lighting.

She had to look down to dial. She nervously punched in Boldt's cellular, and got the number wrong. She cleared the last three digits and reentered them correctly. She hit SND.

The phone signaled a busy cellular circuit. She ended the call, pushed RCL and hit SND again.

Flek had a wad of bills in hand. He leafed through them, and pulled one out, and handed it to the clerk.

For a moment, nothing. Then the call went through.

She heard the ringing tone bleeping in her ear. An swer the phone! she willed. Or would Boldt's cellular be turned off this time of night and her only way to reach him be the home number? Liz had sounded so hostile when she had taken the call earlier. What was that about? Did she even want to know? Answer the damn call!

"Boldt," came his voice, small and thin over the bad connection, cellular to cellular.

Flek had a couple dollars and change in hand as he pushed out the swinging glass door and into a light drizzle that started that exact same instant.

Boldt had roughly explained the predicament over the Denver video to Liz before bidding her goodnight and heading back into town.

"I've thought about it," he had said, "and I don't see how I can just walk away."

"It's not the principled thing to do," she agreed. He loved her for this ability of hers to disconnect and walk the moral walk, talk the moral talk. Her religious faith, rekindled during her struggle with lymphoma, burned brightly. When tested, she fell on the side of right, of good, even if it meant ostensibly insurmountable personal challenges. Her earlier anger at him was "surface anger"-as she called it. When faced with this kind of challenge, they were a team again. She loaned him her own personal courage, and at no cost, no spousal bargaining. "You're known for your integrity, love. You can't escape it, even if you so desire-and I don't think you do. Do you?"

"If they're good for this-whoever they are-then they've got to stand up for it. And they're not going to. Not on their own."

"If it's time for you to leave this job, then it's time," she said.

"What they intend to do-it will hurt. Hurt badly. Our friends. Your church. You want to look at that carefully before we decide this."

"Listen, I'm not saying I fully forgive you for all that has happened, but I'll survive it… we will survive it." She added faintly, "We're survivors."

"It's no easy decision. It can't be made lightly," he cautioned, although more for himself than for her to hear.

"We don't decide these things. They're not ours to decide. We choose to listen or not."

"You're saying the decision is already made," he suggested.

"I'm saying there never was a decision. There was only a question of whether we'd listen or not. And you always listen. You're a good man, Lou. I love you for these moments." Again, she added an afterthought. "I dislike you for certain others."

"We've never been quite at a moment like this, Elizabeth. It's going to rain hard on this house."

"We can take it. Or not." She added, "When you listen, when you do what's right, things have a way of working out. Maybe not this week or next, maybe not this year or next. We could be in for some challenges, individually or together. Who knows? But there comes a time when you look back and say: 'So that's why that happened like that.' I'm telling you-it happens every time."

In-bound traffic had improved in the past few hours. He wasn't going to sleep; he knew that much. It seemed right to get into the office and continue probing the Sanchez case before his time was occupied with defending himself.

His cell phone rang and he answered, "Boldt."

It wasn't until he heard her voice that he remembered he owed Daphne a return call.

"Lou… Thank God," she said breathlessly.

Flek crossed through the drizzle at a run, the six pack of beer held steady in his hands so he didn't shake the cans.

She whispered frantically, "I'm with him, Lou: Flek! They traced his cell phone! Hang on! Don't hang up, even if you think I have."

He popped open the car door and hurried behind the wheel, setting the six-pack of beer down between them. "Damn rain!" he said.

"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 fencesitting; 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.

He said dreamily, as if nothing had happened between them. "He bought it for me at a truck stop. This trip we took once. David. My brother-"

She said nothing, knowing it best to allow him to calm. Her breast burned. Her weapon beckoned, but she dared not move. She glanced down quickly only to see her purse had fallen on its side, the knurled handle of the handgun showing. She extended her knee and placed her foot over the weapon, covering it. She knew now what he would do to her if he found out who she was. All she wanted was out of that car-but she also knew he could not feel threatened by her departure, could not feel she would go running to police, or he would never let her go. One slip of the tongue had brought her here to this moment; she guarded her words carefully. She had a role to play.

Her voice rasped dryly as she spoke, requiring deep breaths to get any sound out at all. "You could have killed me," she said.

Flek had left. The adrenaline had kicked the drugs in ahead of schedule. He ground his teeth so hard she could hear them-like a rock scratching slate. "Out there in eastern Colorado. Might as well be Kansas, it's so damn flat. There was a 'T' on the cup when Davie bought it-TABBY-but he scratched it off with his penknife and handed it to me, saying it was my birthday present."

"I'm going to get out of the car now," she announced, having no trouble playing the terrified and wounded stranger. "You're going to drive off and leave me." With her foot, she tried to stuff the handle of the gun back inside, but it wouldn't go, so she covered it again.

"No, no, no…" he said, suddenly aware of his predicament.

The car idled on the side of the road.

"This was a mistake on my part," she said. "I should have taken the taxi."

"A little late for that."

"You're upset over the loss of your brother. You're lucky I'm a professional, because I understand that. I've seen men in your condition before. Another woman would report you to the police-"

He said sarcastically, "And you're not going to!"

"No, I'm not. That would hardly be fair. It would only further aggravate your mental condition."

"I do not have no 'mental condition'!" he objected. "I am not no mental case!"

"Your grief," she said calmly. "I'm referring to your grief over your brother's loss." She would have to turn her back on him to try manually for the door lock, and the car was one of those where the nub of the lock barely protruded when in the locked position, so it was not going to be an easy feat. There wasn't a mastercontrol-lock in her door panel-there was only the one window toggle and it was once again child-locked and inoperable.

"We got ourselves a situation here," he said, rubbing his sweaty face with an open hand.

"I'm going to unlock the door," she informed him, "and I'm going to get out of the car. All you have to do is drive away and there is no situation."

He seemed to be talking to himself more than her. "The thing is, you look so familiar to me, and I been trying to sort that out. And then you go and speak my name like that, and I'm thinking you are a cop, that that's where I seen you. Something to do with Davie. And now you say you won't tell no one, but that's bullshit and we both know it." He hit the accelerator. The rear wheels shot out plumes of mud and the car slowly squirreled back out into the lane nearly hitting a passing car that swerved to avoid them.

Daphne turned and went for the lock, deciding she could jump at this slow speed. It accelerated quickly. She only had a moment…

She heard the breaking glass and felt the blow simultaneously. The nauseating smell of cheap tequila engulfed her. One moment she was struggling with that damn door lock. The next, there was only pain, and the dark, blue, penetrating swirl of unconsciousness.