“I’ll bet it was Jason down at the end,” the man said as the two women walked side by side.
“I don’t want to get into it,” Bernadette said.
“It was Jason, all right.”
Lor stopped and snapped over her shoulder, “Wally! Give the Jason crap a rest, would you?”
“I left in a hurry,” Bernadette continued. “I got all turned around and thought I was walking to shore. I stepped right off the dock and into the water. I don’t know how it happened. I got so flustered.”
“Jason does that to women,” said Lor, pushing open the door to the bathroom. “He’s such an asshole. I can’t believe someone fixed you up with him.”
Bernadette felt guilty about tarnishing some innocent person’s reputation. “It wasn’t Jason,” she said as she stepped into the bathroom.
“Do you want me to phone someone for you?” Wally asked from the living room.
Bernadette knew who would come get her, but she didn’t want her hosts to make the call or overhear it. “There’s … this other fella,” she said through the door. “It’s kind of awkward.”
Lor got the hint and came back to the bathroom with a cell. She hesitated, studying Bernadette’s face. “Don’t call China or any shit like that, okay?”
“Promise,” said Bernadette, taking the phone and closing the door. Though she was beginning to warm up, she remained wobbly and sore. She dropped the toilet lid and sat down on it. After punching in his number, she held the phone to her ear with one hand and crossed her fingers with the other.
He picked up after five rings. “Garcia.”
She was never so relieved to hear his voice. “Tony. Thank God.”
“What’s going on? Where are you?”
The swampy taste of the river climbed up her throat, and she felt nauseous. Bending over, she whispered into the phone, “I’m at the St. Paul Yacht Club, on Harriet Island.”
“I know where it is, but what—”
“The boat is called the Three-Hour Tour. I’ll have them unlock the gate for you. It’s Gate G. The lower harbor.”
“What are you doing on a boat? What happened to dinner with the brother?”
“I’ll fill you in when you get here.”
“What did you do?”
Bernadette heard a knock at the bathroom door. “One second,” she said into the phone, and set the cell on the bathroom counter. She got up off the toilet lid, wincing from the back pain, and shuffled over to the door while clutching the throw around her. She felt like an old lady. She opened the door and took an armload of clothing from Lor.
“Keep the works,” said the young woman. “It was all headed to Goodwill.”
“Thanks.”
“The ex-boyfriend coming to the rescue?”
Bernadette paused, amused by the role assigned to Garcia. She smiled. “Yeah. He’s on his way. I told him the name of your boat. If you could unlock the gate for him.”
“I’ll send Wally,” said the young woman. “You need anything else?”
Bernadette adjusted the clothes in her arms. “No. This is great. I really appreciate it.”
“Oh, wait,” said Lor, bending over to retrieve something from the floor. She passed a plastic garbage bag to Bernadette. “For your wet clothes.”
“Thanks again.”
“I’ll let you get dressed,” she said, and closed the bathroom door.
Bernadette sat back down on the toilet lid with the phone. “Are you there?”
“I’m the ex-boyfriend, am I?”
“This is a really long story,” Bernadette whispered into the cell.
“I’m in my boxers, so it better be a good one.”
“It is,” she said, and hung up.
Bernadette dressed quickly. The gray sweats felt warm, dry, and comfortably baggy. The woman had even included a pair of wool socks, some well-worn running shoes, and an old ski jacket. While Bernadette stuffed her wet clothes into the garbage bag, she eyed the gun and holster she’d set on the bathroom counter. She’d heard the Glock could survive getting run over by a tank. A dip in the river should be nothing.
Lor tapped on the bathroom door. “How’re you doing in there?”
“Give me one minute,” Bernadette said while tucking the damp holster and gun into the bottomless pockets of the sweatpants. These people had been more than generous, and Bernadette decided to meet Garcia at the gate rather than impose upon them any further. She pulled on the ski jacket and was glad to see it hid the bulge of her gun.
The door popped open and Lor stuck her head inside. “Want me to toss your clothes for you, or are you gonna try to salvage them?”
Bernadette had removed her ID and her wallet. As far as she was concerned, the rest of it, even the coat, was a loss. She never wanted to set eyes on the stuff again. She handed the heavy bag to Lor. “Trash it.”
“That’s what I figured,” said the young woman.
BERNADETTE MANAGED to get off of the Three-Hour Tour without giving Wally and Lor a name, real or fabricated. She figured they were thrilled to rid themselves of the nighttime drama as quickly as possible. As she thumped down the dock, she adjusted her grip on her gun. If her assailant showed up for another try, she wanted to put a bullet in the sneaky bastard. Before she started up the steps that would take her back to the park, she stole a quick look at Matthew’s houseboat. All the lights were off now. He and the woman either had gone to bed or had left while she was inside the Three-Hour Tour.
In her mind, she went back and forth over whether Matthew was indeed the villain. He could have seen her and slipped outside to push her into the river, but what excuse would he have given the woman for leaving the boat? Pardon me a minute while I drown an FBI agent, and please freshen up my drink while I’m gone.
Garcia was just pulling into the parking lot in his Pontiac Grand Am. Spotting her standing in front of the fence, he navigated his heap over to the sidewalk. “Hey, lady, need a lift?” His face darkened when he saw the gun in her hand.
She dropped her gun in the ski jacket’s pocket, opened the passenger door, and hopped inside. Slamming the door hard, she said: “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Garcia turned out of the park. “Why did you have your piece out? Why are you dressed like a bum?”
She reached over and turned up the heat. Looking through the windshield, she noticed the crack was gone. “I see you finally fixed the—”
“Let’s hear it.” He turned the car north onto the Wabasha Bridge and headed for downtown. “Let’s hear it, Cat. Spill it.”
“Not yet.” She looked through the passenger window. The nighttime river would never again seem beautiful and mysterious. She’d tasted it. Nearly drowned in it. A bit of it still clogged her ears and clung to her body. The romance was gone. “I need some time.”
“Time for what?”
“How about we wait until we’re inside?” she asked. “Can we save it until my place?”
“You’d better have beer,” he said, bumping off the bridge and heading for her loft.
“I have beer,” she said, using her index finger to work water out of her ear.
He braked at a red light and wrinkled his nose. “It smells like a swamp in here.”
“Maybe you need to put up one of those air fresheners,” she said.
Chapter 28
WHILE SHE SHOWERED off the stink of the river, Garcia sat on her couch with the remote in one hand and a beer in the other. The instant she cracked open the bathroom door, he punched off the television and looked expectantly in her direction.
“Keep your shirt on,” she said as she tightened the belt around her bathrobe and headed for the kitchen.
He punched the set back on and started surfing the channels. “You’re walking like a grandma.”
“Thanks. You want another beer?”
“I’m good.” He stopped at a program about insects.