Stalked (47 page)

“That truck was a classic.”

“Oh, Jonny, it was a piece of junk,” Serena said. “It had like six hundred thousand miles on it.”

“It was only a hundred and seventy-five,” Stride said. He finished his own beer and retrieved the bratwurst that was blackening on a skewer and dripping fat with a rich sizzle onto the circle of flames. He blew on it and bit off its head and sighed. “Oh, man, that’s good.”

It was the middle of the night. The three of them had stayed on the beach behind Stride’s house for hours, stoking the fire pit, watching the stars, and listening to the slap of lake waves a few yards away. The March night was cool, and snow lingered in patches on the sand, but winter had loosened its grip, giving sea-blue color back to the gray sky. The sweetness in the air tasted like spring. It was the time of year when every Minnesotan in the north knew that they weren’t yet safe from a late fist of icy anger descending on the arrowhead, but time was on their side.

“I haven’t shown you my new trick,” Serena told Maggie.

“Go for it.”

Serena breathed in slowly through her nose, swelling her chest until her lungs were completely filled with air. For weeks, she had been unable to take a deep breath without a fit of coughing. Now, she held it for fifteen seconds, then thirty, then forty-five.

“Honey, that’s great,” Maggie said. She added, “How are the legs?”

Stride saw Serena catch his eye before responding. It was sensitive ground. He was so used to thinking of Serena as tough that it brought him up short to find her breaking into tears over how she looked. He told her over and over to be patient and that, however it worked out, it didn’t matter to him at all. That got him nowhere. It mattered to her.

“I’m not going to be modeling any swimsuits this summer,” Serena said, and her voice had an edge. Stride thought the thin ice holding her up might give away again, but she took another deep breath. “But I’m doing better. It stings when I walk since the last surgery, but that only lasts a few days. It doesn’t feel like alligator skin anymore.”

The day before, she had lingered in front of a mirror. She hadn’t done that in a long time.

“What about you?” Serena asked.

“Don’t you worry about me,” Maggie said, lifting her arms over her head. “It’s spring. My favorite time of year. The lakes melt, the rivers melt, and the bodies all come drifting ashore. I feel like a catcher in the rye.”

“You’re just happy to be back,” Stride said. “And you’re drunk.”

“I am. I’m a little drunk, I’m back on the job, and I’m rich enough to buy and sell you both, so be nice to me.”

“Do we want to know just how much money you’ve got now?” Serena asked.

“You don’t. You really don’t. But don’t complain, because I bought the bats. I mean, I brought the brats. Whatever.”

“Yeah, but I bought the beer,” Stride said. “And you’re on your fifth beer.”

Maggie laughed again, a happy, drunken laugh, a laugh that forgot everything else in the world.

“Speaking of the spring thaw,” Stride said quietly.

He was drunk, too, but when he was drunk, he brooded. He had been dwelling on the bad news all day, and now it bubbled out of him. He could never entirely escape. It was like living on the Point, in the shadow of the lake. There were long, gorgeous summer days, cool spring breezes, a watercolor pallet of fall leaves, and winter mornings where each twig on each bare tree was sheathed in a silver wrap of ice. Every moment was beautiful and fleeting, but lurking behind all of them was the mass of the lake, which took lives and didn’t give them back, which was like the foggy shroud of evil that was always gathering behind him. It was impossible to outrun.

Serena, who wasn’t drinking anything harder than mineral water, recognized the sadness in his tone. “What happened?”

“Tony left a calling card,” he said.

“Oh, man,” Maggie murmured. “What did he do?”

“I got a call from the police in Hassman,” Stride said. “When the snow melted on the highway shoulder this week, they found a woman’s body.”

Maggie and Serena absorbed the information in silence. The wind took that moment to gust off the water.

“Do they know who it is?” Serena asked.

“They think so. A woman named Evelyn Kozlak has been missing for several weeks out of Little Falls. Turned out she was Helen Danning’s college roommate and best friend. That’s how Tony tracked Helen down. He knew them both at the U.”

“Shit,” Maggie said. She added, “And you know what really sucks? I actually liked him. I have a hard time getting past that.”

“Me, too,” Serena said. “He helped both of us.”

“You helped yourselves,” Stride told them. “Tony just happened to be in the room.”

“Helen’s the one I really feel bad about,” Maggie said. “She wasn’t part of any of this. She just wanted to live her life and be left alone. Instead, she and her friend got sucked into a hurricane. Makes me feel pretty helpless.”

“We’re not in prevention,” Stride told her. “We’re in cleanup.”

Maggie stood up and brushed sand off her jeans. “On that cheery note, boys and girls, I’m going to go home and sleep for a couple hours. You two can do whatever it is you do in that bed of yours.”

“You shouldn’t drive,” Serena told her. “Sleep in our spare bedroom.”

“Thanks, but I’ve done that too much lately. I’ve got my own home, you know. At least until I sell that stinking mausoleum and get my own place. Besides, I’m not as buzzed as I look. Talking about dead bodies sobers me up. Don’t worry, I’ll go slow.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Stride said.

As they left the ring of fire, Stride felt the remnants of winter chill creep back in under his clothes. Maggie seemed unaffected. She dangled her red leather jacket over her shoulder. The top two buttons on her pink blouse were undone. Stride had a flashlight, and the beam guided them along the trail through the woods. He walked with her past his house, past the used and dusty black Ford Expedition in his driveway, and out to Minnesota Avenue. The road cutting through the Point was deserted. Maggie’s gleaming new Avalanche, painted in shocking yellow, was parked at the curb.

“It’s good to have you back, Mags,” he said, as they leaned against her truck. His fingers itched for a cigarette, but he had given them up again, and hopefully for good. Serena couldn’t handle the smoke now.

“Thanks.”

“You don’t need the money anymore,” he said. “Why come back to a job like this?”

Maggie shrugged. “It’s what I do.”

“You come to any decision about adopting a kid?”

“I’m still thinking about it,” she admitted. “I’ve got to get my life put back together, and then we’ll see. One step at a time.”

“That would be one lucky kid,” Stride said.

Maggie got up on tiptoes, ran her fingers through his wavy hair, and pulled his head down and kissed him. Her lips were soft as they moved on his mouth, and he wrapped his arms around her back and pulled her close. The kiss went on, a deep kiss, the kind of kiss he never imagined he would share with her.

She broke it off and smirked at him.

“No offense, but I’ve decided to stop loving you.”

“Okay.” As if anything was that easy.

“I have other things to do with my life, and you’re in love with Serena. But it was nice to know I had a shot for a second there.” She gave him one of the sarcastic, know-it-all, infuriating looks she had given him for ten years. “I did have a shot just now, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you did,” he said, surprising himself.

“Leave them wanting more, that’s my motto.”

“Go away.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, boss.”

Maggie tossed her keys in her hand as she strolled around to the driver’s door. He heard her whistling. He stayed where he was for a long while, because he could still feel the touch of her lips and smell her perfume, and it disoriented him. When he followed the snowy trail back to the lake and sat down in front of the fire next to Serena, he was quiet. He felt guilty.

Serena glanced at him, suppressed a grin, and stared off at the lake.

“So she kissed you, huh?” she asked.

“Are you a mind reader?”

“No, but that’s not your shade of lipstick.”

Stride cursed and wiped his face. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

They watched the bonfire dance. Knotty pine crackled and spit.

“Just so we’re clear,” Serena added, “if you ever do it again, I’ll be forced to kill you both.”

“Don’t worry, you’re my alpha girl.”

“Better believe it.”

Serena sidled across the sand and sat so that their legs were touching. He put his hand carefully on her thigh and caressed her skin through the loose fabric of her sweatpants, not touching too hard. She didn’t stop him. Her body didn’t cringe in pain, and her soul didn’t pull away. When he looked at her, her eyes were closed, and she was smiling.

“This is okay?” he asked her.

“This is great.”

They sat there in silence while the fire worked itself down to ash, and when it was nothing but a faint auburn glow on the ribbon of sand, they buried it with snow and hiked back over the grassy slope to their home.

Much of this novel was conceived and researched in a rental cottage on Park Point in Duluth that bears suspicious similarity to the home now owned by Stride and Serena. You can actually stay there yourself, or you can tour the home at www.cottageonthepoint.com. Many thanks to Pat Burns for her hospitality.

As in the past, I am in debt to several people who have done so much to advance my career and who help me turn a manuscript into a novel each year: my agents Ali Gunn, Deborah Schneider, and Diana Mackay; my editors Jennifer Weis and Marion Donaldson; and my wife Marcia (to whom I owe so many other debts, too).

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention several others in the industry who have been wonderful friends and supporters: Peter Newsom; Kim McArthur; Beth Goehring; Carole Baron; Markus Wilhelm; Sally Richardson; Gary Jansen; Silvia Sese; Iris Graedler; Matthew Shear; Carrie Hamilton-Jones; Kate Cooper; Carol Jackson; Gunilla Sondell; Genevieve Waldmann; Frank van de Stadt; and a host of editors and publishing colleagues in the United States and around the world.

In the past three years, I have built relationships with many, many booksellers and readers. Thanks to all of you for your enthusiasm and support. Special thanks to Gail F.; Eric S.; Paul P.; Shelly G.; Jean N.; Ron F.; Bonnie B.; Mike O.; and Jim H.

Finally, I hope you’ll all visit my Web site at www.bfreemanbooks.com and continue to send me e-mails at
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. One of the great pleasures of my life as an author is the opportunity to chat with readers.

Thanks, Mom and Dad. You made everything possible.