Tie Me a Noose
"Get me a rope. Long rope," Zandra says to Chad. "And a life jacket."
Chad rubs the back of his neck. "Errrr, ahhh, m'kay."
What is he uncertain about?
"They can't be that hard to find. Just don't go asking around, that's all," Zandra says.
"No, it's like, I came in here for a reason, you know?" Chad says.
Oh.
"You're going to have to do that somewhere else," Zandra says.
"Why? Just give me a minute. I'll go quick," Chad says.
Because no one can know that I'm in here.
"Because you'd be poisoning my reading of the blood, child," Zandra says. "This is a sensitive environment. A special environment. Too risky."
Chad shrugs. "Guess I'll just piss off the side of the boat then."
Those fish better not have a drug test coming up.
"Don't draw attention to yourself. Go back to your cabin to use the bathroom," Zandra says.
"Yeah, about that, we figured out our room, but we got locked out, I guess?" Chad says.
Zandra is reminded why talking with Chad is like talking with a canker sore.
"Fine. The world is your toilet," Zandra says. "Let me know the condition of the water."
"Probably wet. About to get wetter," Chad says without even a hint of sarcasm.
Chad leaves the bathroom to, presumably, hang his diseased dick over the side of the Curd Queen. Zandra passes the time with a study of the dried blood. There isn't much to analyze. The splatters, splotches, and stains are random.
Or are they?
Zandra looks for the sequential patterns of contraction, expansion, and trend in the blood.
No. They don't apply here. Or maybe I don't see it.
Anyway, this blood is as random as spilled coffee.
Fuck, I need a cigarette.
Chad returns a minute later, sans life jacket and rope.
"What the fuck?" Zandra says from the toilet.
"What?" Chad says and turns the sink on. "Washing my hands. Don't want to be gross."
That ship sailed a long time ago.
"Life jacket. Long, sturdy rope. Go," Zandra says.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm going," Chad says and shifts to dry his hands. He tears a sheet of paper towel instead of hitting the button on the automatic dryer. "Gotta keep quiet, you know."
Congratulations on not being an absolute fucking moron.
"How is the water?" Zandra says.
"Flat. No ripples or anything. I think it's extra deep here," Chad says.
"So calm?"
"Calm, yeah."
Excellent.
Chad leaves once again, and once again Zandra is left to the deep recesses of her mind.
Fuck, I still need a cigarette.
She searches the area around the toilet. Stuffed behind the bowl is a small roll of plastic trash liners. Zandra unrolls a liner and shakes it out. She reaches into her deep pocket and pulls out her pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She drops both into the liner, then twists the loose plastic into a knot. Grabbing a second liner, she repeats the process, double bagging the cigarettes and lighter.
If I put you back into my pocket, you better not leave.
Chad comes back mere minutes later, a life jacket and a long length of rope in tow.
"That was quick," Zandra says. "Did anyone see you?"
"Well, yeah. That's how I got it so fast," Chad says.
"What?"
"I just found someone who works here and asked where that stuff was. Easy," Chad says.
"And they didn't think it was odd that you brought 100 yards of rope and a life jacket into an out-of-order bathroom?" Zandra says.
"I gotta be honest with you. I don't think they get paid enough to think things are odd," Chad says.
Maybe he's not as stupid as he looks after all.
Zandra hobbles to her feet and slips on the life jacket. It's a perfect fit. She threads one end of the rope through the jacket, tying it around her waist.
"So what's the plan exactly?" Chad says. "And is it going to take long? I'm missing out on the demo I paid for."
You're not missing anything from those deadshits.
"It's simple," Zandra says. "You're going to tie the other end of this rope to something solid. Then I'm going to jump off the side of the boat and go to shore."
"Uh, what?"
"Did you not hear me?"
"I did, but why?" Chad says.
"Because, child, there is a spirit on shore that needs my help," Zandra says in the all-knowing, all-seeing tone that she knows works on Chad.
"Like someone drowned?"
"Exactly. This spirit, this person—because that's what they are, really—needs help crossing over to the other side," Zandra says. "That's what I do, child. I help people."
Some more than others.
"Wow," Chad says. "If I wasn't baked right now, that would probably make me cry."
Zandra stuffs the coil of rope back into Chad's arms. "Thank you, child, I'm touched. Now, I'll need you to wait for me to give the signal after I go ashore. That's when you pull the rope and me back onto the boat. Got it?"
"What signal?"
I don't know.
"You'll know it when you see it. Just watch," Zandra says.
"What if someone asks what the fuck I'm doing holding a rope on the side of the boat?" Chad says.
"Be creative. You're good at that."
"I'd probably just ask them a bunch of questions until they go away."
"Brilliant, child. Wear them out. You're good at that, too."
After making sure no one is watching them, they head out of the bathroom for the stern, or rear, of the Curd Queen. On the main level, that leads them as close to the giant paddle as possible without crew clearance. The paddle is quiet given the Curd Queen is anchored, although Zandra would've appreciated some cover noise.
Zandra picks a sheltered nook out of eyesight of the upper level. A thick, metal support beam makes for the perfect spot to tie the rope.
It's also on the opposite side of the Curd Queen from Aaron's body. Aaron was on the left side of the boat. What's that called?
The left side of the Curd Queen is called the "port" side, a bit of trivia Chad somehow recalls from the inner crust of his skull.
Ah, yes, port. So this side here must be starboard, or the right side of the boat. This matters for what happens next.
What happens next is a big splash into the Wisconsin River.
Fuck, this water is cold.
The cold triggers a gasp reflex, and Zandra struggles to breathe despite her head being above water. The shock confuses her sense of direction, but the Wisconsin River does most of the work. The shore isn't more than 100 feet away, and the depth of the water muzzles the current into a gentle prod.
Chad, or maybe someone else, says something from the direction of the Curd Queen. Zandra flails in an attempt to turn an ear toward the boat, but she only manages to knot her calf muscle into a charley horse.
Tunnel vision sets in next, complicating Zandra's sense of direction even further. She can feel blood pounding in her eyes, and she cups them with her hands.
Are my eyes falling out?
Despite the disturbing sensation, Zandra's eyes remain in place. Zandra, bobbing up and down in the life jacket, does not. As the shock wears off, Zandra removes her hands and opens her eyes. The last 10 feet of water remain between her and the shore. Just as she'd assumed after surveying the water from the side of the Curd Queen, the current delivered her almost the entire way to shore.
This last stretch is up to her, though. After getting herself more or less vertical, Zandra probes for the bottom of the river with her good foot. Cold shock turns to warm relief when her foot touches sand.
I'll walk the rest of the way.
Zandra nearly faceplants into the river, but she manages to reach a small strip of beach. She rolls onto her side and catches her breath.
"Can't say I was expecting that. Thought the life jacket would make it easy," Zandra says to herself after a nice, hard cough that somehow shakes loose the charley horse. She looks out at the Curd Queen. Chad still holds the rope, but not for long. He waves at Zandra with both hands.
Stop waving, idiot, and hold the damned rope.
Zandra doesn't wave back. She reaches for the double-bagged cigarette kit she fashioned in the bathroom. The waterproofed contents survived the swim. She lights up a dry cigarette and rubs her bad ankle.
I could walk away from all of this right now. Whatever is happening on the Curd Queen, I could just say, "fuck it," and leave. I didn't kill Aaron, and that weird fuck in the car with the lawyers could help me prove it.
So why don't I? Why should I give a shit?
Zandra exhales a cloud of smoke. She blows it straight up, so the nicotine-stained exhaust carries as far as possible. Her eyes follow the plume as it drifts toward the Curd Queen.
Here's the truth: fucking people over doesn't make me feel the way it used to. The thrill, the satisfaction, the giddy delight, it's all gone now. For years and years, I ran on nothing but piss and vinegar. What do I run on now? Money for retirement? Maybe, but for years it was never about the money. It was about fucking the town that fucked me.
Zandra pauses to crack her neck.
I leave now, and I leave a murderer on a boat with a bunch of clueless dipshits ripe for target practice. Sure, the world would be better off without a few of them, but the real issue is this: Aaron is dead and I need to know why.
The third level of the Curd Queen is in plain view. Zandra watches a broom poke up above the railing to slap away a turkey vulture.
Yes, this is about solving a murder. That's what it is.
She thinks back to the couple in her presentation trying to reach their dead son.
Only a murder.
Nothing else.
No sympathy for Stevens Point.
Fuck off.
Zandra rises from the beach and rings out water from the purple gown. She slips off the life jacket and slides it over a thin stump. She makes sure Chad is still there before heading into the forested shoreline.
Now to find what I came for.
Her search doesn't take long. She finds it in under a minute.
Zandra lights a fresh cigarette. "You can come out now."
"It's about time," responds a voice.