Theresa Monsour (13 page)

He got up off the bed and walked over to her. Stood behind her. Twined his arms around her waist. “Give it up, Paris. If it's this much work, it ain't there. Move on.”

She tried to push his arms off her but he wouldn't budge. She gave up and rested her arms over his. “I have to try.”

“Try what? Try hoping for a miracle? Let me ask you. Is he trying as hard as you are?”

She didn't respond.

“Is he?”

In a voice that was barely audible, she answered, “No.”

“That's what I thought.” He dropped his arms from her waist and walked to the door. She turned to watch him go. “I'm heading back to St. Paul. Ranger Bob pulled the plug on my little holiday. If they find the bridesmaid, she's on my plate, too. I'll be a busy man this week.” He put his hand on the door handle. “Make a decision.” He opened the door and left.

She went to the bed and finished packing her duffel bag. She picked up the surviving champagne glass off the floor, tossed it in the wastebasket. She'd have to get a whole new
set. What good was one champagne flute? She'd never find a match for it. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and buried her face in her hands. The glass was from their wedding day.

WHILE HE SAT in the truck watching all the news vans pull away, he took the pill bottle out of his suitcase. Trip hadn't learned anything from the reporters. They were all cold to him. Too busy to talk to him. They'd used him up; on to the next big thing. Fuck them all. Every last one of them. See if he'd ever give them another story. With shaking hands, he fished a couple of downers out of the bottle and swallowed them. He needed to come down after seeing her outside the park. She had a scar on her forehead; he hadn't noticed it last night in the bar. That mark pleased him. Something had caused her pain and damaged her and he was glad. She was still stunning, though, and that disappointed him. All these years he'd imagined she'd turned into a dried-up hag with gray hair and yellow teeth. Worse than seeing that beautiful face in the light of day was seeing that detective's badge printed on her shirt. She was lying about being on vacation. If she was working on the Moose Lake cases, there had to be a Twin Cities angle since she was a St. Paul detective. The
bridesmaid's ex was from St. Paul. Maybe that was it. That didn't explain why she was at the park after the ranger's body was discovered. Did the police see a St. Paul angle in that case as well? Or had the cops somehow connected the two cases? How? If they had, it wouldn't be good for him. It could mean he'd left something else behind. He'd picked up the shoe the ranger found. What about the other shoe? No. He'd shined the flashlight around before he pulled out of the campsite. Had he dropped it in the park while carrying the body? No. He would have noticed. The shoes were big, bright objects. Not like the dark, compact stiletto. He was sure the other shoe was buried with her in the tarp. He'd left nothing else behind besides the stiletto, and maybe they wouldn't even find that. Even if they did, it wouldn't immediately lead to him nor would it tell the cops the two cases were related. If they found her body, then they'd figure out why the ranger had been killed. That still wouldn't lead them to him. He decided he was safe.

He started the truck and pulled back onto the road. He was afraid it would take too long for the downers to kick in. While he drove, he opened the glove compartment with his right hand and pulled out his one-hitter kit. The wooden container was the size and shape of a pack of unfiltered Camels. He flipped open the hinged top with his thumb. Inside, a stash of Colombian weed on one side of the divided box and a brass smoking pipe on the other. He shifted the box to his driving hand and with his free hand pulled out a pipe the size of a cigarette. He dipped the pipe into the weed, ground it in, pulled it out, put it between his lips. He pushed in the truck cigarette lighter. When it popped out, he grabbed it with his right hand and lit up. He inhaled deeply. The end of the pipe glowed. He held the smoke in his lungs as long as he could. He coughed and the truck swerved a bit. The buzz was starting. “You don't cough, you don't get off,” he muttered to himself. He put the pipe back in the box, closed the kit, returned it to the glove compartment. He felt much better.

He checked the gas gauge. Might as well top off the
tank before hitting the highway, he thought. He drove to the station off the interstate. He looked up and down the road as he held the gas pump. No police blockades or anything. He was relieved. Maybe the cops figured whoever did it was long gone. He went inside and paid for the gas. Went next door to the sub shop and bought a couple of sandwiches and a pop. He slid into a booth and ate so fast he didn't taste anything. Still hungry. He bought a bag of chips and a third sandwich and shoveled the food in. His cell phone rang while he was wiping his mouth. He pulled it out of his jacket.

“Yeah.”

His pa: “You sound tired, Sweet.”

“I'm ready to c . . . come home.”

“How'd you do? Sold a bunch of shirts?”

He lied: “G . . . g . . . got all sorts of orders.”

Pa: “I knew that job would be worthwhile. So when you heading back?”

Trip figured his old man wanted to schedule one last blow job from the fat blond nurse. “I should be home before d . . . dinner.”

“Dinner tonight?”

“Yeah.”

A pause. “Good. Okay then.” He hung up.

His pa sounded let down. Tough. Trip wanted to get home. Get his head together. Find out about this reunion thing. Perfect opportunity for Sweet Justice. He started sucking down the last of his pop and turned his head to glance out the window. A state van had pulled into the parking lot. He tried to read the writing on the side. Minnesota Department of Corrections. The van was empty. How long had it been there? Where was the driver? He heard a voice at the counter and tried to check it out without being obvious. Two men in navy blue uniforms with DOC patches on their shoulders and a bunch of hardware hanging from their belts. Prison guards getting sandwiches. Big sons of bitches, Trip thought. Almost as tall as he and a lot more muscular. Military haircuts and hard-set
mouths. The biggest of the pair eyed Trip while he was waiting for his sub. Trip wondered if he was close enough to smell the pot. He dropped his eyes and picked at some stray lettuce on his tray. He pictured himself behind bars. Imagined that all the in-between stuff could be skipped—arrest, charges, trial, conviction, sentencing—and that the two guards could grab him and take him back with them. The guards paid for their lunches and went back outside. The big one glanced at Trip's truck, got back in the driver's seat of the van. The other one got in, slammed the passenger's door. They pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward the prison. For a second, Trip thought he was going to vomit. He sat in the booth staring straight ahead, empty pop cup in his hand. Time to get the hell out of town, he thought. He'd pushed his luck long enough. He slid out of the booth and went to his truck.

Trip leaned back in the driver's seat as he got on I-35 heading south. Traffic was light. He steered with one hand. Wished the other had the stiletto in it. He slipped a disc into the CD player.
Master of Puppets
by Metallica. The screaming guitars provided balance to the downers and the one-hit. The sensation was similar to sitting on a seesaw with someone who weighed the same. He and Snow White did that in a park. Sat on an old wooden seesaw. Each took an end. Sat perfectly still. Held their knees up so their feet were inches off the ground. He didn't know how long they were there; could have been a minute or half an hour. They looked straight ahead at each other; she was the only female he could ever stare at for any length of time. She broke the spell. “No sudden moves, Sweet,” she'd said. She quick hopped off and his end slapped down on the ground. Landed hard on his ass. She laughed and laughed. So did he.

“No sudden moves,” he said, and pounded the steering wheel to the beat of the drums. He'd make a sudden move on Paris Murphy. Knock her hard on her ass at the reunion. So hard she'd never get up again. How would he do it? He had to be careful. Taking down a cop would be
dangerous. He'd already taken down one uniform. How different was a ranger from a cop? The ranger didn't have a gun, but a cop always carries one. He didn't see one on her. Probably under her sweatshirt or in her purse or even strapped to her ankle. He'd seen that in the movies. No. He couldn't take her up close the way he'd taken the ranger. Fooling with her Jeep Grand Cherokee was a possibility. Still, that was complicated. Took planning. He'd have to find out where she lived. Could he simply do it his usual way? He'd just nailed Bunny Pederson; flattening someone else so soon was risky. He liked spacing them out more. His face had been all over the news. If he showed his face at the reunion and someone at the party died the same way as the bridesmaid . . .

No. He'd have to do something different with Detective Paris Murphy. He eyed the pill bottle sitting on the passenger's seat. He hoped the fat nurse was still hanging around when he got home. The plan he'd almost executed in the bar wasn't such a bad idea. Next time she'd drink her drink; he'd make sure of it.

HER CELL PHONE rang while she was loading her bag into the Jeep. She pulled it out of her purse. “Murphy.”

Duncan: “Jesus Christ. Every time you pick up the phone you sound worse than the last time.”

She silently cursed his perceptive ear. “Need to crash in my own bed.”

“You sure that's all?”

“Let's not go there right now.”

“That dick Winter give you a hard time? Something else going on?”

She appreciated Duncan's concern, but wasn't ready to spill her guts about anything personal. They didn't know each other well enough. “Winter was a jerk. I gave him what I had and hit the road. Throwing my stuff in the Jeep right now.” She slammed the back gate and walked around to the driver's door. Opened it, got in, shut the door. “Please tell me I can head back to the cop shop. I already checked out of the hotel.”

“Go straight home. Catch up on your Z's. Drag your butt
into the station house tomorrow. You put in your eight and then some.”

She leaned her head back in the car seat. “Thanks.”

“For the record, Potato Head, Winter said you put together a real nice package for him. Stuff from the neighbors. Stuff from his work. Confirmation there were no cop calls to his place. The whole bit. Backs up his duck hunting story and shows he's no homicidal maniac.”

She wondered if she could run her theory by him. “Speaking of homicidal maniac, I've got a wild idea about who the killer could be.”

“Love wild ideas. Hit me with it.”

“Tell you what. Let me present it in person. I'll get cleaned up at home and then come in with it. How late you gonna be there tonight?”

“Late as you want. Is your suspect for real? Should we run it by Winter? Maybe they should pick him up.”

She regretted saying something to him this early. “Slow down, Duncan. I don't have enough yet. Got some legwork to do. Besides, my suspect isn't going anywhere. In fact, I expect to see him Saturday night.”

“It's somebody you know? I can hardly wait to hear this. Only thing is, if it ain't a burning emergency, maybe you should save it for the morning.”

“Why?”

“You sound like shit.”

She decided he was right. She needed to pull her thoughts together, write it all down. There might be some holes in her theory. Her brain wasn't completely focused on work right now. “Know what? I think I will sleep on it.”

“Good. Catch you tomorrow in the
A
.
M
. Later, Potato Head.”

She hung up and slipped the phone in her purse. One of these days she'd have to tell him to lay off on the Potato Head talk. She started the Jeep, pulled out of the parking lot and turned onto the interstate. She was on automatic pilot during the drive home. For once she wished she had a
partner so she could ask him to take the wheel. She inserted a compact disc into the CD player. Nat King Cole's “Unforgettable” filled the interior like warm bathwater.

Traffic was light coming out of Moose Lake, but got heavier as she got closer to the Twin Cities. She checked the clock on the Jeep. A little early for rush hour. She took a downtown exit. Cut through downtown. Crossed the Wabasha Bridge and went home. She saw Jack's car in the yacht club parking lot. What was he doing there? She wasn't ready to tell him anything. She pulled into a parking spot, turned off the engine and sat for a minute. The beginnings of three different speeches ran through her mind.
I'm sorry I cheated on you. I'm sorry but if you don't try harder, we're through. I'm sorry but I'm tired, need to be alone tonight
. That last one sounded the best. Gave her some time. Okay, she thought, speech number three. She had no idea what she'd say after that first sentence, but figured something would come to her. She grabbed her keys and her purse and slid out of the driver's seat. Slammed the door. Went around back and opened the gate to get her bag. She walked down the dock and noticed a pair of mallards bobbing in the water. She had some stale flatbread. She'd toss it out to them later. She opened the door to her houseboat and walked in, her mind a jumble of Jack and Erik and ducks and bread.

He was standing in the living room looking out the patio doors. He was still dressed in his scrubs. Some days she wondered if he had any other clothes. She dropped her bag on the galley floor and tossed her keys and purse on the kitchen table. He didn't greet her. Something was wrong. “You lied,” he said, his back still turned to her.

“What?” she asked.

“The flowers. I called your mother. Told her we weren't going to be over for dinner. I asked why she sent the flowers.”

Murphy looked at the bouquet on the kitchen table. Covered her mouth with her right hand. With her left, she
grabbed the back of a kitchen chair for support. She didn't say anything. Not one word came to mind. None of her speeches would work. Her brain was a blank sheet of paper: white, flat, flimsy, useless. The house was silent. Outside, she heard the sound of a speedboat. She wished whoever was piloting it would stop by, interrupt this, take her away.

Jack: “Who?”

She didn't hesitate; no point in hiding it any longer. “Erik Mason.”

His back stiffened. He knew Erik. They'd worked together on different medical committees and projects over the years. “How long?”

“Does it matter?” She didn't want to go into details. This was too painful.

He turned around to face her. He poked his right index finger in his chest. “It fucking matters to me. How long?” She didn't answer right away. Louder: “How long?”

“Since the summer. That night you left for the medical conference. It was just that once. I was so wound up over that case . . .” Her voice trailed off. She didn't want to give excuses.

He took a step toward her. “Are you blaming this on me? This is my fault somehow?”

“No,” she said in a low voice.

He took another step toward her. “Do you think I ever cheated on you? Slept with another woman, even when we were separated?”

“No,” she said.

“Did I ever hit you, abuse you in some way?”

A mean, spiteful question that stung her. She shook her head. “No. Of course not.”

“Was I a lousy lover?”

She looked into his eyes. He was genuinely concerned that their sex life was the problem. It mystified her. Didn't he realize it was the one thing that wasn't at issue? “You're a wonderful lover. You know that.”

“I don't know anything anymore.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Why, then? Why?” She didn't answer. A long silence. Then: “Do you love him?”

The one question she dreaded. She looked down. Covered her forehead with her right hand and with her left still held onto the chair back. She felt as if the kitchen chair was the only thing keeping her from falling through the floor into an abyss. A special hell reserved for unfaithful wives. “I don't know,” she said. She looked up with tears in her eyes. Then the only words she found useful from her prepared speeches: “I'm sorry.”

He rubbed his face with his hands and said through them, “Me too.”

She let go of the chair back and was surprised to see her legs still worked. She walked across the galley into the living room. She tried to wrap her arms around him but he pushed her away and turned toward the river again. The fall sun was starting to fade on the water. Come night, the Mississippi would be as black as ink. She spoke to his back and found the words easier than when she faced him. “I still love you and I think you still love me,” she said.

“Nice words,” he said.

She ignored it. “But we don't get along. We can't even live under the same roof. What kind of marriage is that?”

“One I thought we could save,” he said sadly.

“We still could,” she said. “You . . . we need to work harder at it.”

He turned and faced her. He grabbed her shoulders. “Tell me something. Did you fuck him upstairs, in the same bed where we made love? On the same sheets? Or did you have the courtesy to change them?”

Hateful words that made her cringe and feel even guiltier. Dirtier. It had been in the same bed, on the same sheets. Her only response was a plea: “God, Jack. Please. Stop.”

He pushed her backward onto the couch and leaned over her. She dug her fingers into the cushions, bracing for another verbal assault. “You and Erik can both go to hell.
We're through. Take this souvenir with you.” He pulled her to him, kissed her hard on the mouth. She tried to pull away from him; he was frightening her. He grabbed each side of her head with his hands and held her mouth to his. Almost a minute went by. He withdrew his mouth, but not before biting her bottom lip.

She yelped and fell back against the couch. “Jack!”

He stood up and walked out, slamming the door so hard it shook the galley cupboards.

She touched her mouth with her right hand. Looked at her fingertips. Blood. Jack was usually a steady, calm man. Whenever they fought, he usually walked out before things got ugly. What he'd done was mean and angry, and his parting words unnerved her. Were they really finished? Was it really over? She got up off the couch and went to the kitchen table for her purse. Pulled out her phone. Took a deep breath and exhaled before punching his number.

“Erik?”

“Calling with good news?”

“Jack was here.”

“You told him?”

“Yes.” She pulled out a chair, sat down, rested her elbows on the kitchen table. “He went ballistic.”

“You surprised?”

“I'm worried. If he shows up at your office, could be a scene.”

“If he wants a battle to the death, this is the right place for it.”

“Not funny.”

“Don't worry. I'll behave.”

She touched her bottom lip again; it was starting to swell. “You're not the one I'm worried about.”

“Jack will behave, too. I know him; he's a gentleman.”

She didn't want to tell Erik that the gentleman bit her. She stood up and went to the refrigerator, opened the freezer, dug around inside. Grabbed the ice cube tray. Empty. Pulled out a Popsicle instead. Shut the freezer door. Sat down again. “Be careful. He's not himself.”

For the first time, he sounded serious. “I'd be a changed man if I lost you, Paris.”

“He's the one who did the dumping, Erik.” she said in a low voice. “He told me we're finished.”

“Good. Somebody had to make a decision.”

It wasn't the decision she'd wanted or expected, but she didn't want to tell Erik that. She peeled the paper wrapper off the Popsicle. Covered with crystals of frost. She licked it. Banana-flavored. The thing was probably six months old. She put it to her lip.

“Want some company tonight?” he asked.

She didn't want to see Erik. She was still trying to grasp the idea that her husband had just walked out. “I need to decompress. This thing with Jack, it was pretty intense.”

“All the more reason I should be there, lover.”

“No.” She didn't like him calling her “lover.” Suddenly everything he said was wrong. “Besides, I've got work stuff to keep me busy. Got to collect my thoughts on the Moose Lake case. Put something down on paper to show to Duncan.”

“The tall creep still your man?”

“Yeah.” She glanced at her duffel bag sitting on the kitchen floor. “I haven't even unpacked yet.”

“Call if you change your mind.”

“Okay.”

“I love you, Paris.” She didn't respond. He didn't seem to mind. “Call if you need anything.”

She hung up and set the phone down on the table. She wasn't sure she'd ever be able to say those three words to Erik and mean it. She stood up and tossed the Popsicle in the sink. Felt her lip. Still swollen. Her cell phone rang. She answered quickly, hoping it was Jack calling. “Murphy.”

Her mother: “Honey. Are you back in town?”

“Yes,
Imma
.” Murphy leaned against the kitchen counter. Concentrated on steadying her voice. The last thing she needed was her mother's meddling.

“Why couldn't you and Jack come to dinner tonight if you're home?”

“Ma, I'm dead tired.” That wasn't a lie; she was drained.

“Who sent you the flowers?”

“I don't need this right now.”

“That's why you're not coming. You and Jack had another one of your fights.”

“No, no.” She turned around and rested her head against a cupboard. “Everything's fine, Ma.”

“Bullshit.”

Murphy stood at attention. Her mother never swore. “
Imma
.” Murphy paused, holding the phone to her ear. They'd have to find out eventually. Might as well spill it now. “Jack found out I saw someone over the summer.” She couldn't find the courage to say she “slept with someone.” Her mother would know what “saw someone” meant.