Blind Rage (15 page)

He looked up from his keys. “Don’t you worry about me none.”

The elevator door opened. Bernadette put her foot on the threshold to keep the car open until she finally saw Harry get inside his condo. She stepped onto the elevator and punched her floor.

Closing her eyes, she leaned back against the elevator wall while the car went up. She wished for all the world that she did have someone to stay with her until daybreak. Opening her eyes, she checked her watch again and tried to imagine what Garcia would say if she gave him a call at this bizarre hour and asked him to come over. Why was Garcia the one she thought of tapping for such an intimate favor? Truth be told, she didn’t have anyone else. Her boss was her best friend. Pathetic.

The car stopped and she stepped off. As she walked down the hall, she told herself that she didn’t need Garcia or anyone else. She’d tough the night out by herself; she’d been doing that very thing for years.

Chapter 15

BERNADETTE PUSHED OPEN THE DOOR TO HER LOFT. SHE’D
left it unlocked while she was running around the building; she’d no longer be so cavalier about her home’s security. Closing the door tightly, she turned the deadbolt and slid the security chain into place. While she flipped on every light, she continued to mull over the idea of calling someone. She picked up her cell and studied it, as if the screen would tell her whom to call or what to do. Finding no answers, she hurled the phone onto the couch and marched into the bathroom.

She stripped and tossed her clothes into a corner. Come morning, she’d chuck the works straight into the trash chute, including her tennis shoes. Cranking the water as hot as she could stand it, she stood under the shower and scrubbed for twenty minutes. She went through two towels drying herself off, rubbing her skin red. She wondered if she could have picked up any fleas from the drunk. Should have gone back downstairs with her gun and finished the both of them, she told herself.

Wrapped in a robe, she walked out of the bathroom, picked up the television remote, and collapsed onto the couch. She surfed through every cable channel twice before stopping at an old black-and-white horror flick starring Boris Karloff. It was one Frankenstein movie or another:
Frankenstein. Bride of Frankenstein. Son of Frankenstein. Ghost of Frankenstein. House of Frankenstein.

After five minutes of angry villagers, she decided she couldn’t get into it and punched off the set. She changed into a nightshirt, brushed her teeth, and went upstairs to try to sleep.

Going down on her knees beside the mattress and propping her folded hands atop the bed, she launched into her nightly bedtime ritual. Though she’d been raised Catholic, she’d long ago stopped attending Sunday mass. The only time she set foot in a church was to use the tranquil physical space for her sight. She hadn’t stopped believing in God, however, and every night said the only two prayers she remembered from childhood.

“‘Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name…’”

Saying the words out loud muffled the commotion in her head more effectively than the loudest Frankenstein movie. By the end of the second prayer, the Hail Mary, her body was starting to surrender to exhaustion. She made the sign of the Cross, got up off her knees, and crawled between the covers.

THE MOB CHASED
her along the riverfront, their torches casting bright reflections in the nighttime waters of the Mississippi. Bernadette could feel her heart pounding in her chest as she ran from the shouts. She didn’t know why they were pursuing her. She couldn’t understand what they were yelling at her. The only word she could make out was the name they’d given her.

Monster.

She stopped running and turned to plead with them, ask them to spare her life. They froze fifty feet from where she stood. The hollering hushed. Bernadette looked into the crowd of men and women and children, their furious expressions illuminated and animated by the dancing flames. She recognized two of the faces: they belonged to the bums from the basement.

“Monster!” screamed a female voice in the crowd.

“Monster!” repeated a raspy male voice. One of the bums.

Suddenly the entire throng was chanting the word. “Mon-ster! Mon-ster! Mon-ster! Mon-ster!”

“Why?” she yelled at them. “Why am I a monster?”

“Mon-ster! Mon-ster! Mon-ster!”

At her side, her fists clenched in rage. She reached into her jacket, pulled out her Glock, and aimed into the center of the crowd. “FBI!” she hollered. “Drop your weapons!”

The chanting grew louder and faster. “Monster! Monster! Monster!”

She squeezed the trigger, and the crack of her gun silenced the throng. A small blond girl in a white dress and veil put her hands to her chest. A circle of blood appeared under her tiny fists. The stain widened and the girl’s face contorted. Then the child fell facedown on the ground.

“No!” Bernadette screamed, and threw her pistol and ran.

She could hear the villagers closing in on her, their voices loud with a new chant.

“Kill-er! Kill-er! Kill-er!”

“I’m not a killer,” Bernadette panted as she ran. “Not a killer. Not.”

The chant changed. “Kill her! Kill her! Kill her! Kill her!”

She spotted a dock up ahead and thumped onto the boards. At the end of the dock was a houseboat. Bernadette ran up to the front door and pounded with her fists. She heard music on the other side of the door, but no one answered her knock. She screamed the name of the only person she trusted. “Tony!” Bernadette yelled to the closed door. “Open up! Tony! Help me!”

The mob drew closer. Leading the charge was the blond girl, her dress dripping with blood. Raising her torch in the air, the child led her followers in a new chant, “Burn her! Burn her! Burn her!”

Bernadette flattened her back against the houseboat door and yelled, “No!”

The girl touched the torch to the dock, and an army of spiders spilled out of the fire. They rolled toward Bernadette like a gray, greasy wave. She collapsed against the houseboat door, closed her eyes, and curled her knees to her chest. Shuddering with horror, she felt the creatures enveloping her body. Biting her. A million tiny needles pricking her flesh. She took a final breath, and they invaded her nostrils, suffocating her.

HER EYES
flying open, Bernadette bolted upright in bed. She’d kicked off her covers in her sleep. Though her loft was cool, her body was warm and covered with perspiration. She peeled off her wet nightshirt and tossed it onto the floor. Her heart was pounding like crazy, and she was panting as if she’d just finished a long run. She took a deep breath and let it out. Inhaled again, and let it out slowly. She swore she could smell something burning inside her condo. Had she left the oven on?

She slid off the mattress and took the stairs, hanging tightly onto the rails as she spiraled down. She flipped on the kitchen lights and checked the stovetop. No flame had been left burning on the range. She pulled open the oven door. Empty and cold. She slammed the door shut. Nothing had been left on during the night. She took down a tumbler, turned on the tap, and got a cold drink. It took three glasses of water to quench her thirst.

Exhausted but too tense to go back to bed right away, she stood at the counter and ran her fingers through her damp hair. She pressed her cheek with the back of her hand. Her face was feverish. “I’m losing my mind,” she said aloud.

Chapter 16

CREED FAILED TO MAKE AN APPEARANCE IN THE CELLAR
Friday morning, and the construction noise had subsided. The jackhammer crew must have slept in. Enjoying the serenity, Bernadette sat at her computer to plug into government and other databases.

Professor Finlay Wakefielder had no criminal record. One speeding ticket three years ago. Married and divorced twice. No kids, or at least none that he claimed. Drove an eight-year-old Saab sedan. Lived in the Grove, an exclusive faculty neighborhood next to the university’s St. Paul campus. Ph.D. from Harvard University. Before coming to the University of Minnesota, served as an assistant professor in the department of English at Princeton. Scored numerous prizes and fellowships. Dissertation Writing Fellowship. Prize for Excellence in Teaching. Prize for Excellence in the Humanities. English Prize Fellowship. Published two books, one a history of poetry in the Midwest, the other a biography of the poet John Berryman.

The book about Berryman gave her pause. She remembered something about the famous poet and a bridge. She typed in Berryman’s name and read an online bio. In 1972 Berryman ended his life by leaping from the Washington Avenue Bridge—the same bridge from which the four Minnesota drowning victims had supposedly jumped.

She went to the university’s Web site and looked up the work phone number and address for the professor. Wakefielder’s office in Lind Hall, home to the University of Minnesota’s department of English, was barely a block from the bridge.

Next, research on the bridge itself. Even before the spate of coed drownings, the bridge was fraught with weird mojo. Despite cosmetic makeovers—the most recent being a coat of paint in the school colors of maroon and gold—the campus community complained that the structure had an indefinable bleakness about it. Certainly the girls weren’t the first to go over its railings. Students venturing on the bridge late at night reported hearing phantom footsteps behind them, supposedly the ghosts of those who had leaped or fallen from the bridge in years past.

“I wonder if Creed knows any of them,” she said out loud, and continued with her research.

SHE DROVE TO
the east bank of the Minneapolis campus and parked the Crown Vic in the Church Street Garage, an underground ramp that was north of the university’s mall area. Before dropping in on the professor, she wanted to check out the bridge, which was at the south end of the mall.

She walked past Northrop Memorial Auditorium, a massive concert and dance venue that anchored the north end of the mall. Its wide steps led up to a front entrance lined with tall columns. Bernadette found it reminiscent of a Roman bathhouse on steroids. Other buildings on the mall echoed the design on a smaller scale, their fronts boasting tall columns, tall windows, and wide steps. She had no idea who the mall buildings were named for, but they all sounded sturdy and unassuming: Johnston Hall. Smith Hall. Walter Library.

The sidewalks of the grassy, tree-lined square were teeming with students lugging backpacks and books. Even in the bitter cold, some kids were tossing Frisbees on the grass or sitting outside with their morning coffee and Cokes.

The bridge itself was crowded, too. It crossed the Mississippi, connecting the east and west banks of the university, and was used primarily by students and faculty. The top was for walkers and bikers, and the bottom was for cars. The girls would have gone off the top, which was railed and dotted with globe light poles. A long roofed and walled structure with windows ran down the middle of the walkway. It served as a windbreak for walkers in the winter.