"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."