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KNOWING THAT the Swensons had formerly been the Cotaldis gave my suspicions their first foothold, and now I was jumpy-nervous about what else I would learn.
Too impatient to cook, I ate cheese and fresh bread for dinner washed down with herbal tea. While the summer sky faded to its evening pastels, I supervised Fideaux’s last outing, then stalled a little longer getting ready for bed before finally settling down at Rip's old PC. Very soon the house would be black as a tunnel, but no matter. Spies and ghosts did their best work under cover of night.
Did I really want to do this? I wondered one last time.
Well, yes. Anybody can research anything these days, and unless they’re a suspect, a movie star, or a politician, chances are good their search will remain anonymous. In other words, if nothing scarier than a vindictive ex-wife showed up, I could forget about the Swensons’ personal business and continue to babysit Jack with a clear conscience. On the other hand, if Mike turned out to be a fugitive, for Jack’s sake, my own, and—as I optimistically believed—Susan’s too, I needed to know.
The first item I found was the current couple’s wedding notice, which I already knew occurred in Minneapolis without Father George in attendance. The item was short and useless except for providing Michael's middle initial, K, and the fact that the newlyweds planned to reside locally.
For lack of specifics, looking into Mike’s original marriage took longer, but I eventually learned that he and Claire wed in Bowler, Minnesota. Logical, since someone stuck in a bad marriage usually found comfort in nearby arms. Also, the newspaper write-ups confirmed that the weddings occurred three and a half years apart, a reasonable amount of time for a couple to become disenchanted, get divorced, and give it another go.
After that, I ricocheted from one website to another, partly due to natural curiosity, mostly due to my questionable research skills. I watched an interview about a celebrity bowling match that focused primarily on the peanut butter and jelly sandwich the sports figure was eating. I found a company that built bowling alleys, and a pediatric cardiologist named Bowler. I took a virtual tour of a resort offering fishing and campfires under the stars, and learned that the temperature in Bowler was presently a cool sixty-four degrees. Crisp for summer, but northern Minnesota was, after all, north.
Another hour of perusing useless newspaper archives for crimes Michael Costaldi might have committed gave me a headache and one more idea.
Implementing said idea, however, required phoning Bowler, Minnesota, and one of my many shortcomings is time zones. I once tried to wish Didi happy birthday while she was vacationing in Hawaii at what—for her—was three-thirty in the morning. Since then, I’ve been extra careful calling anywhere west of Pittsburgh. Eleven AM tomorrow seemed a safe enough hour for Minnesota, but I still wasn't entirely sure.
Then I remembered that police stations are always open.
"Bowler Police. What is your emergency?"
"I, uh, don't have an emergency. Is there another number I can call to ask a question?"
A moment later I had a bored sergeant on the line who almost sounded happy to chat. I told him my suspicions about Michael Cotaldi and what Susan described as his “paranoia.”
"Interesting," remarked the sergeant, whose name was Ringwald. "But lots of people are cautious after a divorce. That doesn't make him a criminal."
"He also changed the family name after Jacksonville, and I think he might be following me."
There, I'd said it all.
In the ensuing silence I could hear Ringwald breathe. "How are you connected to these people?" he asked.
"I'm babysitting their son." I explained about meeting George and how that led to the job.
"Give me your cell number," Ringwald instructed. "I'll get back to you."
***
THE NEXT DAY’S forecast called for eighty-five degrees with a low stratus cloud cover, which meant exercising outdoors would soon feel as if you were trapped under a bowl that just came out of the dishwasher. Since dogs have needs regardless of the weather, I herded Fideaux into the car and arrived at the park’s lower path before nine.
"Here you go, sport," I said as I unleashed him thirty yards in. He would stop and go, stop and go as he paused to read his p-mail, while I maintained a steady pace for whatever cardio-vascular benefit that had to offer.
The greenery seemed especially beautiful today. A broad swath of skunk cabbage adorned the creekside with its wide, rhubarb-like leaves. Overhead, the oak and beech trees canopied the underbrush fifty feet below. I especially enjoyed the dappled white trunks of a stand of sycamores and the wild white roses at their feet.
A few other cars had parked before me, so I would not have the place to myself. Still, the path was far from crowded. I passed one woman and her two gray-muzzled mutts near the first bridge over the creek.
"Good morning," we said in turn. "Aren't we smart to beat the heat?"
Fideaux had bounded ahead, nose high, his short, curly gray coat almost ghostly in the morning light. He flashed me his best doggy smile from twenty yards away, and I knew he would be happy for the rest of the day.
After the sycamores and the third bridge, we approached the opening in the boxwood hedge. I thought I saw motion on the other side; but behind me Fideaux sniffed a weed unperturbed, and that was good enough for me.
I sidled through the opening and, wham, fell to the ground. My head hit a rock. Sparklers flared behind my eyes, then the world went black.
When I came to, everything looked blurry, and the noise in my ears sounded like water rushing through a pipe.
Also, a man lay across me as if he were doing push-ups and I was his matt. His face was way too close, and his hands...What was he doing with his hands?
"Rape!" I shouted. "Rape!"
I tried to push him off, but he was way too heavy. Also, we were stuck between the dense boxwood branches the huge rock on my right.
Where was everybody else? Where was Fideaux?
"Yeeow!"
Fideaux had quit growling in order to bite the man’s leg.
“Oof.” That was me.
Shaking his leg had caused the man’s arms to give out, which dropped his dead weight entirely on me. I averted my head trying to breathe.
Curly blond hair brushed my lips, and black-rimmed glasses bumped my nose.
The Hunter. I vaguely remembered distrusting him.
"Rape!" I shouted again. "Rape!" Or was I supposed to shout "fire" so people wouldn't run the other way?
"I'm not . . ." the man protested. "You were...I just..."
I’d taken a self-defense class, but the advice regarding rape escaped me. Something about women desperately fighting to remain upright when we had better strength available on the ground—our legs.
Except how do you kick an attacker away when he’s on you like ham and cheese on rye?
I did the next best thing. I reached between us for his most convenient—and most vulnerable—body part. Being shorts season, the fabric was thin and pliable, probably cotton, not even permanent press. Soft, in other words. I cupped the body part in question and...
The scream the man emitted was unlike anything I had previously heard. It was loud enough to carry into the next county, for one thing, and gut-wrenching in its fervor. And, even though the self-defense instructor recommended squeezing as long as possible, ideally until your attacker passes out, I let go.
So, apparently, had Fideaux, allowing my attacker to right himself to a mostly standing position.
"Jeez, woman," The Hunter complained. "I was trying to give you mouth-to-mouth, and you damn near killed me."
I doubted that mouth-to-mouth was actually recommended for someone who was still breathing, so I had to wonder. Did he just make that up because he had other intentions?
Hearing footfalls up ahead, I sat up in time to see another man lope away, chased by The Hunter's German Shorthaired and my scruffy, clueless mutt.
I'd gotten it wrong. Very, very wrong, and it chilled me to think what my real attacker might have done if no one else had come along. Nothing good, that was for sure.
Still breathing hard, The Hunter gallantly helped me to my feet. He had also seen the other man leave, and he was smart enough to whistle his dog back.
“You dizzy or anything?” he asked.
“I think I’m okay.”
“Got your phone?”
“Forgot it.” A mistake I would never make again.
“You?”
He plucked at this athletic shorts. “No pockets.”
I arranged my face to look like abject contrition. "I'm sorry," I said. "Really, really sorry. I was scared."
"No shit." The former New Yorker doubled over to finish catching his breath, and I noticed blood from my dog’s bites dripping down his leg into his white gym sock.
"You want to sue me or anything?" I asked, tactless as ever.
My rescuer remained hunched over, but he had begun to breathe normally.
"That depends," he responded from his lowered position. "You charging me with attempted rape?"
I smiled. "Nah. It was the most action I've had in years."
The man did not smile back. He turned and limped away, his dog whimpering at his side.
Among my thoughts as I watched them depart? "I am so not ready to date."