"But I'd like to get Maggie's permission to talk to the police about Eric's visit."
"Would that help her?"
"Hypothetically again, it might give them a very different idea of why Eric was killed and who killed him. And dispel this nonsense about Maggie killing him herself."
"Is Maggie reluctant to give permission for some reason?"
"Extremely reluctant."
"I'll talk to her," Serena said. "But she's stubborn, you know."
Tony finally smiled. They both knew Maggie.
"How do you feel about all this, Serena?" he asked after a pause.
"What do you mean?"
"Is it stirring up bad memories of your own past?"
Serena settled back into the sofa. She was paying for this hour; she might as well get some benefit out of it for herself. "Yeah. Jonny asked me if I ever had rape fantasies, like Tanjy, and I flew off the handle."
"What were you feeling?"
"I was pissed off. For women like Tanjy, rape is a game. For me, it was a daily ritual in Phoenix for more than a year. Blue Dog did what he wanted to me, because I was basically his slave, and mommie dearest sat there and watched, while she was as high as a kite."
"Does thinking about those experiences bring back feelings of fear? Helplessness?"
Serena thought about her midnight meeting with the blackmailer. "Sure it does."
"How have you dealt with that?"
"I tried the self-soothing technique you suggested. I literally reminded myself that those feelings came from the girl I was, not who I am today."
"Did that help?"
"It did. I was able to manage the fear."
"Good."
"I want to go back to my hypothetical fantasy girl for a minute," Serena said.
Tony was guarded. "Yes?"
"Could a woman like that be prone to violence? If she was in a sexual relationship, and her partner broke it off in a way that humiliated her, could she seek revenge?"
He rubbed his tired eyes. "You're asking me if it's possible Tanjy killed Eric?"
"I guess I am."
Tony pursed his lips and then shook his head. "I think it's unlikely Tanjy killed anyone. I'm sorry. I don't think that's what this is about."
"Do you know why she disappeared?"
"I have no idea. Truly, I don't. Obviously, I hope she's alive and well."
"So do I," Serena said. "Tanjy may be the only one who knows what really happened to Eric."
19
Sherry studied the fish house dubiously.
It was a wood-and-aluminum box not even as big as a pickup truck. She stood with her boyfriend, Josh, a hundred yards from shore in the midst of a city of dozens of similar shanties. They had walked across the lake, but plenty of people had driven cars and trucks and parked them nearby. She expected to feel the ice give under her feet, or hear the water beating at the surface to get free.
"You're sure this is safe?" she asked.
"There's probably eighteen inches of ice underneath our feet," Josh assured her.
Sherry looked out across Hell's Lake where it broadened into a wide open space beyond the trees. "Why do they have those flags way out there?"
"Well, the ice is thinner out that way," Josh said. "You can have hot spots on any lake. You know, places where the ice isn't safe. You might have underwater currents from a stream, or warm water runoff from somewhere, or simply spots where the ice has thawed and frozen a lot, and so it's got a lot of cracks in it."
"This thing's not going to sink, is it?"
"No way. Not here. I wouldn't drive my dad's Cadillac out where the flags are, but right here, we're fine. Promise."
Sherry rolled her eyes. "Let's get inside."
It was ungodly cold. She wore a white down coat with bubble sleeves, which she hated because it made her look like the Michelin tire man, but it was her only winter coat. She wore it half-zipped and sported a pink turtleneck underneath. She had a fleece band around her head, protecting her ears from the wind, but otherwise, her blond curls blew freely. She wore Guess jeans with her initials in gold spangles on the rear pocket and Uggs that kept her feet and ankles from freezing.
She hadn't adjusted to the Minnesota weather. She was a California girl, born and raised in San Jose, and she had been appalled when her dad took a job as CFO of an airplane manufacturer in Duluth. She was eighteen years old, a senior, and instead of graduating with her friends back home, she was stuck here in the icebox of the nation, trying to fit in among a crowd of teenage rednecks.
That included Josh. He was a football player, big and slow. Even so, he was six feet three and a Scandinavian beauty, and they looked good together.
Josh undid the padlock on the fish house and let them inside. It looked like a prison cell in Siberia. No windows. Pitch-black. He turned on an oil lamp that illuminated a garage sale sofa and a couple of Sam's Club wooden chairs. Inside was just as cold as outside, and the wind blew through the aluminum siding as if it wasn't there.
"Oh, man, does it get any warmer?"
"I'll get the heater going," Josh said.
Sherry shrugged off her coat. "You just want my nips to show." She followed his eyes and glanced down at her turtleneck. "Looks like you win. The headlights are on."
She rubbed her arms vigorously and stamped her feet in the small, claustrophobic shanty. She wrinkled her nose at the fishy smell. There was a large circle cut into the ice in the center of the floor. She peered down into it and saw slushy water about a foot down. It was opaque.
"How do you cut through the ice?" she asked.
"Gas auger," Josh said. He pointed at a machine that looked like an outboard motor with two feet of black screw attached, its blades pocked with rust.
"This is like a horror movie," she said. "You're not going to cut me up, are you?"
"No!"
Sherry laughed. "It was a joke. Besides, in those movies, the girl has to get naked before she gets killed, and I am not getting naked in this place." Josh looked disappointed, and she added with a wink, "Okay, maybe a little naked."
The heater beat back the cold in the fish house. Sherry watched as Josh prepared the hook end of a fishing line and unwound the line deep into the cut-out section of ice. He propped the rod on an upside-down chair and reached into his pocket for a small bell, which he tied to the line with thread.
"What's that for?" she asked.
"If a fish takes the bait, the line jerks and rings the bell." He tapped it with his hand, and the bell went ding, ding.
"Cute."
Josh unzipped his backpack and pulled out an iPod and a set of portable speakers. He put on an album by the Black Eyed Peas, and Sherry began rolling her body to Fergie's funky beat. Josh's face lit up in a sly grin, and he reached back into the pack and came out with two frosty cans of Miller Lite.
"Let the party begin," he said.
Sherry took an open can from Josh and drank down a long swallow that she thought would freeze in her throat. Holding the can with two fingers, she danced, swiveling her hips lazily and slithering her arms and fingers up and down her body. The more she danced and drank, the warmer she felt, and the more handsome Josh got.
She crooked her finger, beckoning him to the sofa. They sat down, and his hands prowled over her back. He kissed her clumsily; his tongue felt like a wet slug exploring the roof of her mouth. She felt him tentatively cup one of her breasts, and when she didn't protest, he grabbed it as if he were diving for a fumble. A low moan purred from his throat.
She pulled away and rolled her shirt up an inch at a time, revealing her flat tummy and then her pear-shaped breasts. She left the shirt propped on top of her cleavage. His eyes were so wide she thought she could see around them into his brain. She turned her attention to his belt buckle, which she undid, and then unzipped him, exposing the white fabric of his underwear. She reached inside and pulled him out.
His eyes were closed. He was on the moon.