She didn't know how much time had passed, and she prayed that Jonny would soon be flooding the area with police.
The tracks led her into the port, and she found herself in a world populated by sleeping giants. Cranes soared into the sky, hooks dangling on steel cables like hangmen. Snow-covered mountains of dirt, scrap metal, and taconite dwarfed her, and concrete silos more than a hundred feet tall towered over the flat land. She tried to lose herself in the huge, silent maze, where the only noise was the hiss of the blizzard. She watched and listened for him, but he had melted into the port behind her and vanished. He could be anywhere.
She had trouble walking. Her feet trailed blood, and she could barely feel them or move her toes. Cuts and bruises stung her face, and she tasted more blood on her lips. The handcuffs rubbed her wrists raw. She couldn't move anymore. She stopped where a crevice had eroded into a pyramid of earth and forced herself inside, hating that she couldn't see out, hoping he wouldn't cross in front of her. She squatted, making herself small, but she swayed on her frostbitten feet and toppled forward, exposed. Snow continued to fall in a white rain that chilled and enveloped her. She tried to right herself, but she had no strength anymore except to lie there and hope that the giants would protect her.
Her cell phone began ringing. It was ungodly loud. Her hands were tied, and all she could do was listen to it shoot up a flare for him. She heard the slow, sure crunch of his footsteps as he found her and glimpsed his shadow looming over her, and she didn't even care. He laughed, staring down at her prone body, and dragged her by her collar off the ground. His revolver was flipped in his hand, the butt facing out. She had no more fight.
"Time for a little payback," he said.
The gun flew up, it flew down, and somewhere she saw the orange light of the sun coming closer and burning her eyes and leaving her blind.
PART THREE. HOT SPOTS
46
The second glass of shiraz made Helen Danning's head swim. She usually avoided alcohol, but a few days at Evelyn's house had relaxed her. She sat in a fraying easy chair and hummed as she listened to the soundtrack from Damn Yankees on the stereo. She had seen nearly every performance of the show at the Ordway, with Jerry Lewis in the role of the devil. He was a great devil.
Helen filed her fingernails to perfect crescents and swung up her legs to do the same with her toenails. She was particular about her nails, makeup, lipstick, and hair. Everything had to be clean and in place. She ironed all her clothes, even her socks and underwear, when they were fresh out of the dryer. She kept her countertops disinfected and sparkling and never left a dirty dish in the sink. Evelyn wasn't so fussy. Her friend liked mess creeping in at the edges, but she didn't complain when Helen obsessively cleaned her house.
Evelyn warbled the chorus from the show tune on the speakers. She dipped to one knee and spread both arms wide as she bounded into the living room.
Helen laughed.
"That's what I like to see," Evelyn told her. "You laughing. You with your feet up."
"I'm a little drunk," Helen said.
"Good."
Evelyn reached inside the hall closet and took out a fleece jacket covered with strips of silver reflective tape. She shrugged it on.
"You're going jogging?" Helen asked. "It's late."
"I know, I got caught up in my latest masterpiece." Evelyn wiped a smudge of paint from her cheek.
"It's slippery out there."
The windows were pasted with snow.
Evelyn shrugged. "I'm used to it. Anyway, there's nothing but flurries now. The storm tracked north. Duluth is getting buried."
"I'm hungry," Helen said.
"I won't be long, and then we can have dinner." Evelyn sighed as her golden retriever launched a frenzy of barking in the front of the house. "That dog barks at every damn deer that wanders into the woods. Edgar! Leave Bambi alone! You know, I found him nose to nose with a moose one morning, and the moose was looking at that dog like he was nuts."
Evelyn padded over to the ottoman in her white socks, pushed Helen's legs aside, and sat down. She began putting on her tennis shoes and eyed Helen thoughtfully.
"So did you write back to that woman who sent you the e-mail? Eric's wife?"
Helen frowned. "I told her to leave me alone."
"You think that's the right thing to do?"
"She's a cop. I don't want anything to do with cops."
"She's also a woman whose husband was murdered. You might be able to help her. Don't you think you should?"
"I don't want to get in the middle of this."
"You already are."
"What do you mean?"
Evelyn dug into the pocket of her sweat pants and pulled out a scrap of paper. She handed it to Helen. It was a phone number with a 218 area code.
"Somebody called me at the shop today," Evelyn said. "He was with the Duluth police."
Helen tensed. "Oh, my God."
"They're looking for you, honeybun."
"You didn't tell him anything, did you?"
"Of course not, but he knew we were best friends. He gave me his number and said I should ask you to call him."
Helen bolted up. "I have to go."
Evelyn put a calming hand on her chest. "Whoa there, girl. Think about this. Why don't you call and talk to him? What would a phone call hurt? I know you had a bad time with the police in college, but this is different."
"Evelyn, I just want this all to go away. I want to live my life and not have anyone bother me, you know?"
"It's too late for that," Evelyn told her. "You might be the one person who can help them catch this guy."
"All I ever wanted was to put this behind me."
"I know. Look, have some more wine, and think about it, okay? We can talk about it over dinner."
"I may not be here when you come back."
"And miss my spinach spaghetti and meatless meatballs? Bite your tongue."
"I'm scared."
"Don't be. I told you before, you're safe here. Okay? Just hang on, and I'll be back in a few minutes."
"Couldn't you skip your run tonight?" Helen asked.
"I could skip it every night, but then I'd never do it. I won't be long." She jogged over to the front door. The golden retriever was still barking outside. "Edgar! You don't even like venison! Stupid dog."
When she was gone, Helen shut the music off. She put the second glass of wine down on the edge of a bookshelf. She was keyed up, and she got out of the easy chair and paced. She used the remote control to turn on the television, and she stood with her arms folded, watching an old sitcom, before she realized she wasn't even listening to the dialogue. She shut the television off, too.
Helen thought about Eric Sorenson, the attractive man with the flowing blond hair. When he first approached her at the theater, she didn't trust him, and she didn't want to hear his story. It was only when he told her what had happened to his wife that she agreed to meet him for dinner after the show. That was a mistake. She didn't want to get involved. She had been running away from the assault in college since she was twenty years old, and the last thing she needed was this stranger bringing it all up again.
Then, three days later, it was all over the news. The man who had sat across the table from her was dead. Murdered. His wife was the suspect.
His wife, who had sent an e-mail on Helen's blog. I need your help.