"Sure, why not?"
Both the eyes looked anxious, but Adam was used to that.
"I'm looking for Jake Morrison. Have you seen him lately or done any business with him?"
"Jake? Sure. What's he done?"
The laugh was nervous too.
"Nothing as far as I know. His wife is ill, and I need to locate him. Have you been in contact today? I know you get around quite a bit."
Adam leaned back and took a sip of coffee.
"Yeah, sure I do. But I didn't see Jake today. I'm listing those houses he is building out on the lake, but I haven't talked to him for a few days. Did you try his office?"
"I thought he worked on site?"
"He has an office above mine, in the back. I didn't see his truck this morning, and I haven't been back."
"How is he to do business with?"
"He's okay. He's working on a shoestring, but the bills get paid."
"When did he come back here, do you know?"
"I don't really know anything about him, Lieutenant. What's that got to do with finding him? He has a brother. Why don't you ask him?"
"Any reason you don't want to answer the question?"
"No, no. I don't want to get him pissed off. I have to do business with the guy."
"So when did he come back?"
"Couple, three years ago. Brought that Viet woman with him."
"He wasn't old enough to go to Nam, was he?"
"Sure. Just at the end. He come out on the helicopters."
"With the woman?"
"Don't know anything about her."
"Do you know the brother?"
Joe settled back in his chair, relaxed. Getting used to him? Or was he moving away from a sensitive spot, as the conversation turned to Ted?
"Oh, yeah. He runs that store in Pine Grove since his mother died. Nice guy. Jake always led him around by the nose when they were young. Now, I don't know. What's up, Davidson?" he went on suspiciously. "What's this got to do with finding a guy whose wife is sick?"
"I need to talk to Jake, Joe, and I can't say more."
“Neither can I. I gotta go."
Suddenly he was up and gone, leaving a five dollar bill on the table for Peg.
Adam ambled to the window and watched Brearley's car disappear in the direction of his office.
The clock in the tower on the courthouse struck four, a deep note playing against the church bells from the other end of the square. Adam drove out to the strip mall.
The mall was hardly worthy of the name: a gas station at one end, not a chain, but one of those that sell cut-rate and poor quality gasoline; a convenience store attached to that; a liquor store; and Joe's office at the end.
Brearley looked up as Adam came in, not happy to see him.
"Again. Didn't we talk long enough? I've got work to do."
Blustering and scared. What the hell did he have to be afraid of?
"Sure. But I want to check Morrison's office," Adam said.
"Don't you need a warrant or something?"
"I don't want to search the place. I want to see if he's there."
“So what are you bothering me for?”
"Aren't you the landlord?"
“Yes, but I can't let you in."
"Come on, Joe. Stop dicking around."
Adam yanked open the door.
"Let's go."
"Okay, okay. It's around the back."
Upkeep wasn't Joe's strong suit as a landlord. The paint at the back had seen better days, and the railing on the stairs was more hazard than help. Joe was puffing at the top and fumbled with the key after Adam pounded on the door. Adam pulled him back as he attempted to go in first.
"In case, okay, Joe?"
No Jake. No furniture. A phone sat abandoned in the middle of the floor.
"What the fuck."
Joe's face turned red to his ears.
"Looks like your tenant's taken French leave," Adam said.
"What?”
"Gone. Vamoosed. Did he owe you money?"
"No. In fact, I owed him. Why would he do this? What's going on, Lieutenant?"
"So far he's been a guy with a sick wife. But now I want to talk to him. If he calls you or you see him, call me. Understand?”
"Sure, sure I will."
Adam left the salesman shaking and pouring himself a drink in the office.
Thinking that the woman might have come out of her coma, Adam drove back to the hospital. The intensive care unit was on the third floor opposite a nursing station. He buzzed for entry and walked down the short hall, passed the curtained patient cubicles to the desk.
Alison Blalock, the head nurse, looked up from the paperwork that is the time-consuming bane of every nurse's existence. She knew Adam from their work with the local Boys and Girls Club.
"Hi, Adam. How are you?"
"Fine, thanks. Is Mrs. Morrison awake?"
"Sure. She woke up this morning, and we discharged her about two o'clock."
"What? Where was my guard?"
"He had to leave. Big MVA on the four-lane. We're getting two. We put her in a taxi when she insisted on leaving. I don't know where she went. She wouldn't give a destination until we left. Sorry, Adam."
Adam thanked her and waited to explode until he reached his car.
He called Pete to meet him at the lake. He wanted back up. These people seemed to be desperate and desperate people did dangerous and stupid things. On the way, he put out a bulletin on the Morrison vehicle. They probably changed cars if they were running from them.
Pete waited for him at the rock-cut. Adam told him they would take his truck as he went around to get the shotgun out of the trunk.
"Who are we after, Adam?"
"The Morrisons."
"You're kidding. I didn't figure them for real bad guys."
"I think they were the ones who hit Brad. One of them anyway. The other one called 911. At least that's how I figure it."
After Adam brought Pete up to speed on the Morrisons, they drove the rest of the long lane in silence. It was dark now. The trees bending overhead kept the light from the setting sun off the road. Pete cut the headlights before they rounded the curve to the house. No lights in the windows. The silver-tinged, purple lake, the brightest spot in the landscape, lay still beyond the house. They saw no movement as they walked up the gravel path to the house. The path stopped at three steps up to the deck and the front door. Clear cedar for the deck and the door. No expense spared here. Like all lake houses, most of the windows were on the waterside. The high small windows to one side were likely in the bedrooms, he thought, trying to remember the layout. No answer to their knocks.
Adam waved Pete around to the front on one side while he took the other. No movement inside. Pete reached the front and called him.
"Adam! Doors are wide open. I'm going to check the boathouse."
Adam watched Pete's loping run then turned back to the house. He groped for a light switch. The pot lights in the ceiling glowed remotely. Nothing much changed since he carried Morrison's wife out. He waited for Pete.
Something heavy hit the water, the sound echoing off the building. Splashing and Pete's voice calling. An engine roared.
Christ, I hope Pete's not under that propeller he thought as he ran to the waterfront.
The sound of the powerful boat distanced. Pete's head bobbed in the wake.
"Pete," he yelled. "You okay?"
"Yeah. That son of a bitch. Throw me a line. My gear's weighing me down."
A ring hung on the boathouse. Under-water steps led up to the wall along the shore. Adam threw the ring and pulled Pete in to the stairs.
"What happened?"
"When I got to the boathouse, I found all the doors locked," said Pete as pulled off his boots and wrung the water out of his socks. "I walked down beside it to see if the waterside door was open. Look at this," he interrupted himself as he poured water from his holster, "damn things aren't waterproof. As I turned the corner, he came a
t me and shoved me in. She or someone was in the boat because he shouted—go, go—and the engine turned over. I swam hard as I could toward the shore. That bastard didn't care where I was. He just missed me as he came out of the slip."
"Which way?"
"Up the lake. He's long gone. He'll have a car at the marina at the head of the lake. It's closed at this time of night so the guys will be gone. He'll drive away."
"Someone will have seen the vehicle."
"Maybe. But he's a good customer. They may not have "noticed"." By now Pete had his shirt off and was wringing fouled lake water, scented with gasoline and fish, out of it.
"Do you think we can requisition some towels for me from the house, Adam, since he's the one who put me in the lake?"
"Damn right."
Pete muttered colorful descriptions of Morrison's probable antecedents and current practices as they walked back to the house. He was shaking in the cold air.
"Take off the rest of your stuff, Pete. I'll find you a towel and some clothes." Adam said as he flicked on lights on his way into the bedroom.
Closets and drawers stood open, but still full. They didn't take much, he thought. One drawer yielded a grey sweat suit and socks. He grabbed towels from a shelf in the bathroom. Pete lay on the white sofa, shivering and now sleepy.
"Wake up, Pete,' Adam shook him roughly. "You dry off and put these clothes on. You're hypothermic. That water can't be more than fifty degrees, since it's been so damn cold."
"Sleepy." Pete's voice was thick.
"I know." Adam pulled the shirt over Pete's head. "Put these pants on. I'm going to find some tea or bourbon or something."
There was tea. He made it strong with several spoons of sugar, a remedy his mother used for cold and shock. Adam wrapped Pete in a blanket and forced half a mug of tea down. Pete stopped shivering and managed his lop-sided grin.
"You going to leave a note for Morrison, Adam. Explain why we stole his clothes and drank his tea?"
"No. I'll apologize right after I arrest him for assault."
"Do you make him for the murderer?"
"Maybe. He was being blackmailed. At least he was on Jennifer's list. You okay to go back to town?”
"I think so."
Adam dropped Pete off at home with instructions for hot drink and sleep. He was going back to the office and to see Erin. He'd leave Morrison to the county boys for now.
Chapter Thirty
The next morning Anne began to feel the stirrings of an old familiar need. Too much time cooped up in an office. She needed to get out and about. Maybe she and Catherine could safely go to lunch, now the Russian was out of the picture.
"Sure," Catherine said. "We can go out past Pine Grove. Ariel Dawson runs a small tearoom in her house. It is beautifully restored, and her husband is an excellent chef. There is an antique store on the property and another over the stone bridge. The bridge is lovely."
"Will it be open?"
"I'll phone."
The stone bridge reminded Anne of one in a village near her hometown. The one she remembered had five arches, this one only three, but with the same grace and beauty. The spring floodwaters under the bridge hid the treacherous rapids Catherine had described to her on the way. A charming building of the same stone, housing an antique store, faced the bridge on the other side of the river. They decided to return after lunch.
A long curve up a hill and a right turn into a steep lane took them to the Bed and Breakfast (and lunch) owned by Ariel, Catherine's friend.
The view from a bench overlooking the valley was English watercolor perfect. Downriver and a hundred feet below, flat sheets of rock jutted into the rapids. Small islands of drowned trees marked the flood line. A canopy of forest on either side framed the view. A solitary red figure cast a fishing line from the near shore.
Catherine called her, and she turned to walk up to the cottage with her.
Green-framed French doors opened off the porch that wrapped around the house, and into the low-ceilinged dining room. The day was warm enough to sit outside, and so they did.
The high screened windows looked out over the expanse of the river to the hills beyond. Anne and Catherine chattered on about their mutual interests in gardening and reading and a little about Anne's work for Adam. As served their desserts, Anne noted another couple had come in at some point. Odd, Anne thought. They look like Adam's description of the Morrisons, a big blonde man and a tiny oriental woman, except she was in the hospital as far as Anne knew. Adam wanted to talk to him.
"Catherine, do you recognize the couple by the window?"
"No, I don't think I've ever seen them before."
"Do you think you could ask Ariel without letting them notice?"
"Sure, I'll try."
It didn't work. At least Anne didn't think so. Catherine trailed around the room, asking Ariel about the paintings and asking about the other couple very quietly, but somehow the man suspected. Anne thought he noticed Catherine's faint nod.
"Let's go on to the antique store," Catherine suggested.
The parking area for the store overlooked the river as it ran under the bridge. The town had built a cedar-planked lookout, over the water, but with the river so high it was fenced off.
Small rooms, one with a few pieces of antique furniture, dishes and collectibles, another with reproduction kitchenware, large white bowls, splatter-ware pie pans and the like, and a third with local crafts, crammed the small stone building. The door opened as Anne came down the stairs from the second floor. Morrison's large frame filled the doorway. He moved aside to let them pass and then followed them outside.
A grey truck, a Chev maybe, stood close to Catherine's van. Morrison's wife sat on the passenger side. As they crossed the road, a car came around the bend off the bridge, cutting Morrison off from them for a moment before it pulled into the parking lot beside Anne's car.
"Catherine, run to the car, lock yourself in and call 911. I'm afraid of what he might do."
"But, Anne—”
"Go."
Anne raced to a narrow path that led under the bridge. Morrison bellowed behind her. She stumbled down the steep, slippery path, onto one of the broad sheets of rock that marked the shoreline. Anne played in places like this as a child. She scrabbled across the granite, using her hands for balance, to a narrow ledge under the first arch. As she edged along, she heard Morrison cursing and telling her he wanted to talk to her.
The river lapped at the ledge, but Anne knew it was swift and deep in spite of its placid surface. What had she done? There was no way off at the other end.
"Hey," Morrison yelled at her as he leaned around the arch in front of her.
Anne lost her grip on the stones and clutched at the wall as her legs were caught by the strong current. Her fingers, scraping against the stones, caught on something. An iron ring. Anne held on as the river tore at her legs. She kept her head above the water, enough to breathe. In the distance, Catherine shrieked her name, but she couldn't answer. It took all she had to fight the current and keep her grasp on the ring. It won't be long, she thought. She'd have to let go soon. Her hands were numbed. Maybe she should let herself go and slip under the water. Maybe she could swim out of this. Maybe the rapids are covered deep enough.
Catherine called Adam from the car and watched unbelieving, as Anne ran under the bridge. The river was treacherous and there was no way off. Anne's hands held onto a ring drilled into the rock above the water line.
The car that cut Morrison off belonged to Ted Atkins. He bolted down the path to where Catherine stood, horror-stricken.
"There's a boat up the river. Come on. It will take two of us."
Catherine clutched his arm.
"Morrison's still out here. He might kill her."
"We can't stop him if he's going to, but she will drown if we don't get her out of the river."
Atkins pulled Catherine along the river and into the boat. She found a life-ring in the boat as he struggled with the moto
r. The engine caught, and they were in midstream. On land, Morrison ran back to his truck. It disappeared across the bridge.
Then they were under the arch where Anne struggled to keep her head above the water.
"Hurry, Ted, hurry," Catherine said.
Anne clung to the ring. She concentrated on her hands, willing them not to let go. An engine roared above the deep rumble of the rapids. The sound came closer. Her legs, would he stay away from her legs? The engine died.
"Anne, I'm putting a ring over your head. Try to put your arms through one at a time."
The ring fell against her arms.
"I can't. I'll not be able to hold on with one hand."
"Just for a second. Then you can hold the preserver. It's the only way."
Was that Adam's voice? How did he get here so fast? Taking a breath, Anne let go with one hand, clawed at the canvas, and held on. For dear life. Now she knew what that meant.
"Now your other hand. Do it, Anne," the voice that couldn't be Adam, commanded.
The iron ring was solid, attached. What if she lost it? Was she going to stay in the water forever? She let go and grasped the life preserver.
But now the river took her, pulling her downstream.
"Adam."
Did she scream? She didn't have energy left to scream.
"We have you."
The line tightened, and arms lifted her, knocking her ribs against the gunnel.
"Thank you," she whispered.
She grabbed Catherine's hand. At the dock, the paramedics wrapped her in blankets and gave her something hot to drink.
"Morrison, did you get him?" she asked Adam who appeared beside her when she could speak again.
"No."
"I'm sorry. I was so afraid he was going to kill us."
Abruptly, she sobbed, turning her face into Catherine's shoulder.
Adam waited until the ambulance left and asked Ted, "Which way did he turn at the bridge?"
"Left."
Left, away from Pine Grove, where his brother lived, and away from Culver's Mills. No border crossing.
Murderous Roots Page 16
