Liquid Lies Part 5

"I guess so." I looked down at my feet.

"Are you feeling better? The whole town is worried about you," Francesca said as she touched my shoulder.

"I'm perfect, like nothing ever happened," I said. Then I felt rude, Mark was just standing there. "Have you met the mail boat captain, Mark Stevens?"

"You're the hero of the day. It's so nice to meet you," Francesca said as she gave Mark a hug. "So, mail boat captain huh? That's a great job, how long have you done that?"

"This is the fourth and final summer for both CiCi and me," Mark replied.

"What do you two do the rest of the year?" Francesca asked.

"I'm starting grad school in September," I chimed in.

"What school?" Francesca asked.

"You know me, has to be close to home. U of W," I said.

"Mark, do you attend Wisconsin too?" Francesca turned to Mark and asked.

"Nope. I'm an M.I.T.," Mark said.

"Cool. My dad went there for his MBA. What degree are you working on?" Francesca asked.

"Not M.I.T. I am an M.I.T. It's short for mortician in training."

Francesca raised an eyebrow. "You work with dead people?"

He leaned near her and whispered, "Yes. We're not allowed to embalm live ones."

Every time Mark mentioned he's a mortician, he usually elicited one of two responses: either complete revulsion or intense curiosity. The first time he told me, about two years ago, that he wanted to be a mortician, I asked no fewer than a hundred questions.

Francesca continued, "What's it like working with dead bodies?"

"Great. None of my clients has ever complained." Mark smiled.

Francesca and I both laughed.

A mutual friend strolled by and waved for us to come back to the bar.

Francesca put her hand on Mark's shoulder. "Go ahead Mark. I need to talk to CiCi alone for a minute. Okay?"

"Okay. I'll see you later on. I'll wait for you in the bar," Mark replied before he left.

Francesca bit her bottom lip. "Can we sit over there and talk?" She motioned to a recently vacated table, in the corner of the room, just outside the bar.

We sat down. I wondered how long it would be before she wanted to get to the truck stop incident.

A waiter came over and took our drink order.

"So, how was Europe? What's up since, well the um, you know?" I hated that she represented the past that I had so carefully avoided, yet she was also was a part of a time in my life that I missed so terribly.

"The last night we saw each other? Actually, that's what I have to talk to you about. It's time to pay up." Francesca fiddled with her hair.

I asked, "How much do you want? I think I've got forty bucks."

Francesca got her margarita from the waiter. "We have to talk about it."

My stomach took a free fall. "The weather? It's been kind of balmy huh?" The waiter put a draft beer in front of me. I pulled out a twenty for both drinks and tip and gave it to the waiter.

Francesca brushed a strand of hair away from her face. She spoke softly, "I'm being blackmailed. I have to come clean, that means you do too."

"Are you kidding me?" I answered. My breath was shallow and my hands trembled.

She reached over and held my hand, her eyes were slits. "We have no choice."

In a barely audible voice I leaned toward her, "Four years ago you gave me no choice. Remember? It was your decision. No. Your demand, that we never talk about it again. Yours alone. I honored that against my better judgment to go to the police. We had a pact. h.e.l.l, you told me it would ruin your dad's career. Isn't he running for governor?"

"I know. But things have changed." A tear streamed down her face. "Horribly changed."

My heart raced. I kept my voice low. "Listen, I've made peace with that night. It was self-defense."

She leaned in. "I have to pay off the person who knows it was me. It doesn't matter if it was self-defense. It's our word against a dead guy's."

"But a dead guy who was threatening us," I said as I clenched and unclenched my fists.

She moved closer to me. "Are you going to the police with me to confess, or do we pay off the blackmailer?"

"Neither!" I reached for my drink with a shaky hand. I dropped the beer mug on the floor. The crash of the shattering gla.s.s made everyone in the bar turn and look in our direction.

Francesca stood. "Walk out with me, now."

Something told me I should. I stood and followed her outside. We walked across the street to the lake.

We stopped under a streetlight, near a bench. Francesca commanded, "Police or payoff? We have to do one of the two."

I slumped down on a bench. No doubt about it. This had to be the s.h.i.+ttiest day of my life...since the day with the trucker anyway.

She plopped down next to me. "If the money isn't dropped off at nine-thirty tonight, the police will be notified. So what's it going to be?"

"How much are we talking about?" I asked.

"Twenty thousand in one hundred dollar bills," she lowered her head.

"I don't have that kind of money," I panicked.

"I have the money with me. I took it out of my trust fund." Francesca pulled out a small package wrapped in black paper from her purse. "Is your freedom worth this? All you have to do is deliver it and keep your mouth shut."

I lifted my head and looked her in the eyes. "Give me the details."

"You see that mailbox beyond the swing sets? The money has to be put under there at nine-thirty, not one minute before or after." She looked at her cell phone. "It's nine-fifteen"

I tightened my jaw. "So we're already on borrowed time?"

"Weren't we always?" she said.

I forced a grin. This day was dripping with irony. "After all these years, someone comes forward?"

"Yes. And I think I may know who it is, but I want to be sure before I make an accusation," she said.

"Who is it?" I asked.

"I can't tell you now. I have more pressing matters to take care of. First, I have to meet someone." She pressed the package into my hand.

I pushed it back at her. With fear in my voice I said, "I won't do this."

Francesca chucked the package back at me and yelled, "It's this or jail. I came up with the money. The least you can do is make the drop-off."

She did have a point. Before I could respond, she stormed off leaving the package in my hands and fear in my bones.

Just then, something occurred to me about the bench I was sitting on. Any time I pa.s.sed it, the people on it always seemed to be shouting and arguing. It must be cursed. It was an angry bench. I looked over and saw a couple kissing on a bench a few yards away. That was the same bench on which I sat when Ken proposed. It must be the romantic bench.

My thoughts flew back to my a.s.signment.

What if the blackmailer planned on not only taking the money but killing the person who delivered it? Or demanded more money later? Okay, my imagination was running wild. But I didn't want to be seen doing the drop-off. I quickly decided that I would disguise myself, and then get a weapon for protection. I had less than fifteen minutes so I hurried to the pavilion.

I dashed to the locker room, unlocked the door and grabbed some of Mark's clothes. I put on his captain's hat and his windbreaker. I tucked the package of money under the windbreaker. Looking around I found a flashlight, which would have to do as my weapon. And it served a dual purpose. If needed, I could s.h.i.+ne the light in their eyes to blind them and then whack them on the head with it.

Emerging from the locker room, I hurried to the playground area. I sat outside a stream of light from one of the nearby pavilion street lamps. I had a good view of the mailbox. Now I had to time it just right to run to the mailbox and toss the money under it. My heart was racing and my body drenched in bitter dread.

A dark shadow moved near a group of trees by the mailbox. I forced myself to concentrate on deep breaths.

Gla.s.s broke. I jumped. It became darker. Someone must have busted a streetlight. They're after me.

My cell phone read nine-twenty-eight. In the dark, I stumbled and fell to the ground on my way to the mailbox.

A little ambient light from nearby buildings helped me find my way as I crawled on my hands and knees, over sand and dirt and twigs.

My head hit something metal. I reached up and felt the cool metal mailbox.

I listened for any movement around me.

Other than the sound of crickets chirping and waves lapping against the sh.o.r.e, it was pretty quiet. I must be alone, for now. I took a deep breath, I had to do this. As soon as I made the drop, I ran like h.e.l.l.

After changing clothes, I walked back to H&K's. My legs were still quivering. Mark appeared and put his hand on my shoulder.

"Are you okay, Casper?" Mark said.

"Huh?" I said.

Mark held my shoulders. "You're as white as a ghost. You know you should have taken the whole day off after your accident. You're not looking too great. I could dab a little color on your cheeks."

I pushed away from him. "Watch out. I have a restraining order out on you. If you come within fifty feet of me with a makeup sponge you'll be arrested."

He looked around. "Where's Francesca?"

A part of me wanted to spill the beans to Mark, tell him everything. But I knew I couldn't. "She had to leave."

I wanted to spare him the truth until telling him became absolutely necessary, like when I was thrown in jail for the trucker's murder.

Chapter Seven.

We walked to the barroom in the back of the restaurant. Nearly all the bar stools, as well as most of the chairs surrounding the tables were occupied. A band was on the stage tuning up, as the jukebox blared pop rock music. Mark and I joined a group of friends and we said our h.e.l.los. They motioned to the two remaining bar stools.

I was determined to act like nothing was wrong. Enjoy my freedom while it lasted. Yet, my insides were doing somersaults and random thoughts of fleeing the country crossed my mind.

"CiCi, did you read about the hospital expansion?" My college friend Lucas asked as the bartender set a bowl of peanuts in front of him. Lucas worked at the local newspaper, The Lakeside News.

"A little." I answered. "Mark, Lucas, can I get you a draft?"

Mark pulled a bowl of peanuts toward him. He scooped up a handful. "Sure."

"No thanks. This is already my third one." Lucas held up his mug, half full of beer. "It's my limit to still be able to function tomorrow."

I turned toward the bartender. "Two drafts please." Mark reached for his wallet, but I waved him off. "You got my dinner, I'll get the drinks." I set down a ten-dollar bill on the counter to cover the drinks and tip.

The bar filled up, mainly with locals clad in shorts or jeans, and casual s.h.i.+rts. The wood floor was sticky with spilled beer, and the noise level of the crowd was causing us to shout our conversation. It smelled of alcohol, perfume and cooking odors from the restaurant.

Mark asked Lucas, "Now what were you saying about a hospital expansion?"

"The groundbreaking was in today's paper," Lucas said.

The bartender set down two frosted gla.s.s mugs of beer. I slid one over to Mark. Then I took a swig of mine. I wanted to submerge myself in it. "And?"

Lucas leaned on the bar and popped a peanut in his mouth. "They're building a new wing."

I grabbed a napkin and put it under my beer to catch the condensation. "Ken told me the hospital's new CEO is a real go-getter."

Lucas swigged his beer. "I guess so. It appears that he wants to start buying up dozens of houses."

"Why would he need to do that?" I asked. "The hospital is expanding in the vacant lots east of the emergency room."