“Find the Tylenol?”
“Uh … no. Don’t worry about it.” She put her hands on the tabletop and smiled.
“UNBELIEVABLE,” SHE breathed as she set down the phone. Then she picked it up again to call Garcia.
“Why aren’t you home?” he asked.
“Tony, I know who Charles drowned. It was one twin.”
“Who?”
“His twin sister, Charlene.”
“Holy crap.”
“They would have been—I don’t know—six or so. Charlene supposedly fell into their family’s pool. Charles was found sitting frozen in a lawn chair, staring at her body. Didn’t get help or anything. Police report attributed his behavior to shock.”
“Was he really in shock, or did he let her drown? Do you think he even pushed her in?”
“Who knows?”
“How in the hell did you come up with this?”
“A hunch.” She looked over at Creed’s desk. He wasn’t there to enjoy the moment, and she felt guilty for taking credit.
“So that was before he watched the sick stuff at the VonHader house?”
“Yeah. Watching Ruth nearly drown and getting off on it, that pretty much sealed the deal. It’s a miracle he waited until Ruth died to start acting out.”
“Well, we haven’t gone over old drowning cases yet.”
“Yeah. You’re right.”
“Good work. This should help soften the problems around the tower mess.”
She smiled to herself. Creed had bailed her out again, the spooky SOB. “That might be why my connection to Charles was so strong,” said Bernadette. “He was half of a twin set, like me.”
“Makes sense, at least in Bernadette World,” Garcia said. “Now go home. You’ve had a long day.”
Chapter 44
AFTER SPENDING MOST of tuesday night dwelling on everything that had transpired over the previous ten days, Bernadette welcomed Garcia’s early-morning phone call as a surprise and a relief. “How about we play hooky and take out that bike of yours? There’re some great trails south of the cities, near Faribault.”
“I know all those trails,” said Bernadette. “Problem is you don’t have a bike, and mine would be too small for you. It’s only a one-fifty.”
“I’ve checked out this joint that rents.”
She knew the place he was talking about, and it would be perfect for a novice. At the same time, she was worried about his safety. “How green are you? If you got hurt, I’d feel terrible.”
“I had a motorcycle. Still have the endorsement on my driver’s license.” He paused. “Is your back up for it? I didn’t think about that.”
“God, you make me sound like an old lady. Back is fine. Give me an hour and come over. I’ll have the bike loaded on the truck by the time you get here. Have you got any equipment?”
“A helmet, I think. Stored in a box in the basement.”
“Dig it out and dust it off,” she said. “And wear your worst pair of jeans. You’re probably going to rip the hell out of them and get them all muddy. You need a pair of leather boots. Hunting boots or work boots. They need to be tough and tall. By that, I mean over the calf.”
“Why so high?”
“Obviously any part of any bike that falls on you could ding you up pretty good.”
“Right about that.”
“Dirt bikes have these sort of menacing-looking foot pegs that allow for a better grip, so riders can stand on them. They’re bare metal, as opposed to being covered in rubber like regular bikes. They have springs to lessen the damage if they fall on you, but good boots are essential.”
“I’ve got a pair of shit-kickers that would work.”
“Riding gloves are important, too. I have an extra set. They’re too big for me. They’ll probably be tight on you, but they’ll work. I’ve got spare goggles. Those should fit fine; they’re adjustable.”
“Sounds like we’re going to war.”
WITH HER HONDA and a pile of riding gear rattling in the truck bed behind them, they rode down together in Bernadette’s pickup. During the hour-long drive down south, they exchanged stories about home-maintenance headaches, with Bernadette bitching about her dishwasher and Garcia griping about the furnace that would have to be replaced before winter. She asked about his weight training. He told her about a couple of health clubs that were decent and warned her away from one that had scary showers. They both admitted to dreading the upcoming holidays. She didn’t have close family to spend time with, and he felt crowded out by his clan and that of his deceased wife’s.
“They still include you?” she asked as she checked the highway exit signs and saw that her ramp was coming up.
“It’s as if having me at the table is keeping a part of her at the table.” He glanced out the passenger window. “Makes it hard to move on.”
Bernadette navigated the truck off Interstate 35. “I’ll bet.”
He turned his head back around and looked at her. “What about you? My wife’s been gone six years and Michael’s only been gone three. You must still keep in touch with his people.”
“His people never liked me, and they blamed me. They said I should have been paying better attention.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“Yeah … well.”
“With all the, uh, folks you’ve seen—Murrick and Creed and I don’t know who else … Have you ever wondered?”
She hung a right on a county road. “If I’ll ever set eyes on my dead husband?”
“What would you do?”
She jerked the truck to a halt at a stop sign, braking harder than she intended. “I’d have a helluva a lot to say to him, and he’d probably never show his face again.”
“He really pissed you off.”
She checked both ways and rolled through the intersection. “He dumped me in the most permanent way possible.”
“Maybe it wasn’t about you.”
She didn’t know what to say to that, so she turned the conversation around and asked him a tough question. “If you could talk to your wife again, what would you say to her?”
“That I love her and miss her. That I’m sorry.”
Bernadette frowned. “Sorry for what?”
“Sorry for the accident. Sorry for not getting the idiot who ran her car off the road.”
She hung a left onto a gravel stretch, glad to get off the subject of dead spouses. “Ready to rumble?”
SHE WAS PLEASED there weren’t many other people riding. Garcia had rented a big beater of a bike, and Bernadette didn’t think he could do anything to the Yamaha that hadn’t been done before. The trails were muddy and there were a lot of ruts, but the hills weren’t unmanageable. She looked up at the slate sky; as long as there was no storm, they’d be good.
Made up of more than a hundred acres of rolling land, the private riding area belonged to a retired farmer who was making a second living running the dirt bike park and renting out vehicles. Some of the trail wound around open fields while other sections looped in and out of stands of trees. A creek bordered the southern swath, and Bernadette had no intention of taking Garcia there. With all the blind corners, an inexperienced rider could easily end up in the water.
They rode together through a wide, straight trail. When they reached the start of a modest incline, she gave him some tips and then stayed at the bottom to watch how he handled it. Keeping both feet planted on the pegs, he shifted into low gear and sped up before ascending. He stopped at the top and turned around, waiting for approval.
She gave him a big thumbs-up and followed him.
Garcia performed just as well descending the hill. He shifted into low gear and went down with the throttle closed, applying the brakes to reduce his speed.
The bottom of the incline was a mud puddle. Garcia’s big bike began to bog down, and when he opened the throttle suddenly to maintain his momentum, the front end got out from under him. He fell off the back, and the bike tipped on its side in the mud.