Read Outburst for Free Online Page B

pulled up the collar of his shirt. “This just doesn't make any sense.”
    Last night Rawlins had taken charge because, of course, he and his partner, Neal Foster, were in Car 1110, meaning that as the homicide investigators on duty the case was automatically theirs. The trouble was that at first there'd been no indication of any crime—no gun, no bullet casing, not to mention any sign of a body. Thanks to the heavy rains, there hadn't even been any visible traces of blood. Insisting, however, that this be thoroughly handled, Rawlins had called Car 21, the Bureau of Investigation team, and the guys on duty in that division had gotten out their pump bottle of luminol and sprayed the chemical on part of the bridge. As the summer light had faded, they'd then shone a black light on the spot and certain proteins had fluoresced, indicating blood and plenty of it. A full investigation had been immediately set in motion.
    And now a bunch of divers were down there bobbing for a body.
    “I was standing right here,” began Todd, hanging on to the railing, “wondering if anyone would show.”
    “Okay.” Rawlins was a rugged kind of guy, who was nevertheless naturally patient, thorough. “Go on. Just take it slow.”
    “And then someone came up behind and touched me. It was him, this guy, this Mark Forrest.”
    “The mysterious Mr. X. We're still searching, but no one by that name has been reported as missing.”
    “Well, this guy, whatever his name was, was no bum. I got the sense that he was gay, but I could be wrong. Anyway, he was gorgeous, and someone's going to want him back, someone's going to come looking for him. You can trust me on that one.”
    “He said he was here because you called him?”
    “Right. And I was here because I got a call from someone, a guy, who said something about blackmail.” Todd shook his head. “So obviously there was some sort of setup going on.”
    “I guess so.” Rawlins scratched his neck and asked, “Do you think the whole shooting could have been staged somehow?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You know, fake bullet, an old bag of blood. A scam of sorts for a television reporter.”
    “Maybe, but why? I can't think how it would connect to any of the stories I'm working on. Not even the one about the drug dealers in the suburbs.” Recalling the look on Mark Forrest's face, he added, “I haven't seen that many people shot, but it sure as hell looked real to me. And Forrest certainly didn't look like some kind of shyster. If anything, he seemed very genuine.”
    For the third or fourth time they walked through exactly what had happened. And where. Todd was sure of the exact spot he'd been standing when Forrest had approached him. He was able to recall what they'd done as soon as the rain had started pelting down. He remembered, too, when he'd first seen the approaching figure.
    “Then the wind hit,” said Todd. “It just came roaring down the river with nothing to block it. I thought it was a tornado.”
    But it hadn't been. There hadn't been any great vortex, no massive twirling wind sucking everything upward. Rather, it had been the nearly as destructive straight-line winds, which were brought by derechos, a phenomenon of squall-line thunderstorms that sent blasts of cold air hurling downward in a straight, broad, destructive swath. And yesterday's sheer wall of force had bowled over the plains at, according to weather experts—which every other person in Minnesota considered himself to be—nearly one hundred miles per hour and dumped over two inches of rain in ten minutes.
    “So the last time you saw Mark Forrest,” Rawlins said as he moved to the railing on the other side of the bridge, “he was standing here.”
    “Clutching the bullet wound.” Todd ran over the sequence in his mind. “Then that sign hit me and I blacked out for a few minutes.”
    So as best they could figure, one of three things had taken place. Mark Forrest had been blown into the river. The person