Twenty minutes later, he pulled into the gravel parking lot of the Deepwater Marina. It was just past the wooden bridge over the Miller Creek Inlet, a small white frame building with a poster near the entrance listing boat rental fees. A red-and-white diving symbol hung by the front door.
To the right of the marina, a concrete boat ramp angled down, and two wooden docks extended into the water. The slips were empty except for a single vessel, an old cabin cruiser.
Jack killed the engine. A sharp wind from the north was whipping up whitecaps and sending scraps of paper and plastic skipping across the lot. He’d used to fish here on the lake’s shallow south end when he was a boy, catching perch and bullheads. There had been a little bait shop on the spot where the marina now stood and no concrete boat ramp, just a muddy bank. The storage lot for boats and trailers across the road had been a cattail marsh.
Just west of the storage lot rose a tiny hill, and on top of it sat a small blue ranch house, which also hadn’t been there when he was a boy. It was Fred Hinkle’s house.
He took his time crossing the lot to the door of the marina building. The windows were dark, but there was an “Open” sign in the window. When he tried the door, it gave with the tinkle of a little bell.
The place appeared deserted. Beyond several display racks of fishing tackle, three galvanized minnow tanks ran the length of one wall. Other shelves were devoted to boating and diving equipment, and against one wall leaned a row of yellow scuba tanks.
A door opened behind the counter, and a man strode out, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. As if surprised to see a customer, he stared at Jack for a moment.
“Good morning,” Jack said.
He was a wide-chested man about forty years old with close-cropped hair and prominent forehead and chin. He was broad in the shoulders, and his upper arms bulged with muscle.
“What can I do for you?” he said, tossing the rag on the counter.
“I’m looking for Fred Hinkle.”
“You’ve found him.”
“I’m Dr. Jack Forester from the New Canterbury emergency department. I treated your daughter Katrina yesterday. Just happened to be passing by and thought I’d stop and see how she’s doing.”
Hinkle’s dark eyes were inscrutable.
“Well, I’m afraid you didn’t cure her. She stayed home from school again today.”
In the background, the filters in the minnow tanks hummed and gurgled.
“Sorry to hear that.”
“My wife said you couldn’t find anything wrong with her.”
“Nothing showed up on the tests, but I gave your wife a referral to a pediatrician I’m sure could help.”
“You gave her a referral?” A shadow passed over his eyes. “I didn’t hear about that.”
“I could give you the doctor’s name again, if you’d like.”
“Do that.”
He handed Jack a sheet of paper. Jack consulted his cell phone for Virginia Sortelli’s office number, and as he was writing, he heard the bell above the door tinkle.
“Speak of the devil,” Hinkle said. “You’re not supposed to leave the house if you didn’t go to school.”
Katrina was dressed in a baggy gray sweatshirt and a pair of jeans.
“I’m feeling better. Did you need some help? I’m bored.”
“You need to go back up to the house. The doc here stopped by to see how you’re doing.”
“Hi, Katrina,” Jack said.
She stared at him.
“Hi.”
He turned away to give Hinkle the sheet of paper, and when he did he heard the bell tinkle again. When he looked, Katrina had disappeared.
“She’s a good kid,” Hinkle said, “but she’s been through some tough times.”
“Dr. Sortelli can help her.”
“I’ll give her a call.”
“I understand Katrina’s seen Dr. Witner.”
Hinkle shrugged and stuck the paper in his shirt pocket.
“For what it’s worth,” he said. “Is there anything else you need? I’m pretty busy today.”
“I understand you offer diving classes here.”
“Do you have a card?”
“No.”
“Then start with the course at the YMCA. Stop back after, and I’ll set up your open-water dives. That’s about it.”
“Sounds great. I’d love to see Lake Stanwick under the surface—anywhere but the caves. I’m not sure I’d care for that, especially after what happened to Dr. McCarthy this summer.”
“It doesn’t have to be unsafe.”
“What, actually, happened to him?”
Hinkle picked up the rag.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Forester. Jack Forester.”
“It’s a funny thing about doctors,” Hinkle mused, twisting the rag. “Must be the education. They think they can’t get hurt.”
“But Bob McCarthy was highly experienced, wasn’t he?”
“Anybody can find themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
As Jack descended the steps of the marina and crossed the parking lot to his car, the back of his neck tingled. He looked, but couldn’t see Hinkle.
Then he spotted Katrina standing on the bluff by the little blue house, staring down at him.
* * *
Jack took a table near the door of the Flying Duck and waited for Greta to arrive. Twelve-fifteen came and went, then twelve-thirty. He’d nearly given up hope when he finally saw her walk in the door.
“Jack, I don’t have much time,” she said, surveying the room as she sat. “Let me jump to the point. There is something strange about Dr. Witner—and I mean more than just that he’s a far cry from Dr. Gavin in terms of human kindness.”
“No disagreement, Greta.”
“Have you ever heard of something called the Society Carnivalis?”
“No.”
“Neither has anyone else, and Google couldn’t help me, either.”
“Where did you run across it?”
Greta scanned the restaurant again, then leaned closer.
“A few weeks ago, Dr. Witner was called out on an emergency. He locked the office door like he always does, but I could see it was still ajar. It wasn’t closed when he turned the bolt.
“I know it wasn’t right, but I went in. I saw a book lying on his desk with the words Society Carnivalis on the front. I probably should have just walked away…”
“What did you see in it?” Jack encouraged her.
“I was shaking like a leaf. I just flipped through it very quickly. There were a lot of lists and what looked like meeting minutes, and some kind of manifesto.”
“Manifesto?”
“Yes, you know, like a statement of purpose?”
“What did it say?”
“It looked like, I don’t know, plans to fight against something. Whatever, it sounded very strange. And then there were lists and lists of names—it looked like almost everybody who works at the medical center and descriptions after their names in some kind of code. Some of them were checked off.”
“Did you see any names in particular, Greta?”
“No, my heart was in my throat. I’ve always wondered why he’s so secretive. It just isn’t normal. He had a private secure phone line installed in there. Why? Do you know what else was on his desk? A row of marbles. Why would a grown man be playing with marbles?”
“I have no idea.”
“Maybe I’m going nuts, Jack, but I think he’s connected with some kind of criminal organization. I think…”
She stopped, and her face went blank as she stared out the restaurant’s front window. Jack followed the direction of her gaze; Witner was walking by. He didn’t turn his head in their direction, but a slight smile formed on his lips as he passed. Then he was out of sight.
Greta turned to Jack and was undeniably frightened.
“I’m not an alarmist, Jack, but something isn’t right. You just saw that. How did
he know?”
“Might just have been a coincidence, Greta,” he said, trying and failing to sound convinced.
“Should I go to the police? I mean, I’ve thought about it, but all I’ve mainly got is this feeling. That, and a book I was looking at without permission.”
“I agree, Greta. At this point, given the friends Dr. Witner has, I don’t think the police would listen to you.”
“But you understand what I’m saying, don’t you? You don’t think I’m crazy?”
Jack shook his head. “No. And I’m glad you shared this. I’ve got some real concerns about him, too, Greta, and I’m going to be checking up on some things.”
“Good,” she said, sounding as though a great burden had been lifted. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“I will.”
“One more thing—be careful,” she warned. “We don’t need any more tragedies.”
XXVI
Cobwebs
What a pleasant feeling, Jack reflected, to be standing by the sink in the kitchen of his house, cleaning up after a meal and talking with an interesting and very attractive woman. Ordinarily, he would have left things on the table or the kitchen counters and worried about it later. But she’d laughed at this suggestion and, in a firm but friendly way, gone to work, handing him a towel.
So, they’d cleaned and talked; and before Jack realized it, the kitchen was back in order, and he’d enjoyed the experience. After that, he found her a pair of gloves and a heavy sweater and gave her a down vest to put on over the sweater, and they took wine glasses out onto the deck, where the stars had come out. Distant lights from the city glittered through the trees.
“This was just what I needed,” she said. “As much as I love New York, I’m still a country girl. And here comes my friend. Hello, sweetie.”
Arbus trotted up to her.
“He hasn’t left you alone all night,” Jack said.
“I’m sorry your brother didn’t join us for supper.”
“He might still come.”
During the meal, they’d talked a lot about his brother.
“He must be extremely resourceful to get along out there all by himself day after day. Does he ever seem lonely?”
“Sometimes I think he’s the one who feels sorry for me.”
She looked off into the darkness for a moment, and then turned to him.
“Jack, in case no one’s ever told you—you’re a very generous person.”
“What makes you say that?”
“For one thing, the way you’ve shaped your life around your brother’s.”
“I can’t take credit for that. It just happens to work out.”
“You understand what he needs, and you take care of him. That’s nice. It’s more than nice—it’s good.”
Looking at her, Jack ’s heart swelled. She raised her wine glass and clinked it against his.
“And you grill a mean chicken in subfreezing weather,” she added.
“It’s actually thirty-six degrees,” he corrected, grinning. “This is a heat wave by New Canterbury standards.”
She laughed, but Jack had noticed a shiver in her voice. He led her back inside, kindled the fire he’d already laid in the wood stove and pulled a couple of chairs up close to it.
“So,” she said, “we’ve managed to avoid talking about the medical center for almost two hours.”
“Which has been a good thing.”
“But where do we go with this mystery from here?”
“I need to tell you some things.”
Jack described running into Armand Bedford, and how he’d learned about the connection between Witner and Hinkle, and then how he’d driven out to Hinkle’s marina. She listened raptly as he described his lunchtime meeting with Greta Carpenter, and of the eerie passage of Witner by the window as he and Greta were talking.
She swirled the wine in her glass, lost in thought. An idea had been edging into Jack’s mind all evening, and he decided to confess it.
“Zellie, I’m starting to feel like I may be dragging you into danger.”
“You’re not dragging me anywhere,” she said, glancing up and smiling.
“I know that. But I’m getting this ominous feeling. I don’t like it.”
“Tell me more.”
“I’m not sure what to tell you. I do know I’ve got no choice but to keep digging, keep trying to find out what’s going on. My whole life is at stake here.”
“I understand that, but I can’t write the story unless I know the truth,” she pointed out. “I want to see this through as much as you do.”
“ All of this might still be a pack of coincidences.”
“Two minds would be better at figuring that out, don’t you think?”
“Holmes and Watson, huh?” he said.
“And I’m a big girl—please remember that. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.”
He nodded.
“I’ll be Holmes, by the way,” she added. “You’re the doctor, so you can be the straight man.”
“You cut a tough bargain. But, onward, Holmes.”
“Okay, let’s review the facts. What do we know for sure at this point?”
“We know that Fred Hinkle and Bryson Witner have a relationship, and that Hinkle was the only witness to Bob McCarthy’s death in the underwater cave.”
“And because McCarthy died, Witner became the acting dean,” Zellie put in.
“And Lester Zyman died unexpectedly right after he posted a letter to Dr. Gavin,” Jack continued.
“And something in that letter made Dr. Gavin fly all the way back here.”
“And we know now he wanted to talk to the police about the deaths of Zyman and McCarthy.”
“But before that could happen, Dr. Gavin allegedly tried to commit suicide, which goes against everything you know about the man.”
“Then Bryson Witner starts telling everyone Dr. Gavin was showing signs of depression, even convincing the chief of police.”
“But when you talked to Gavin, you didn’t get that impression at all.”
“Witner wanted you to believe he and Gavin were on good terms.”
“Which I would have bought if you and I hadn’t become acquainted—and Dr. Witner last night was obviously not pleased we know each other.”
“Right. If someone tried to kill Dr. Gavin and make it look like suicide, things didn’t go as planned. Thanks to some shrubbery, he survived. But when he gets to the ED, a mistake nearly kills him.”
“Jack, is there any possible way Witner could have arranged for things to happen the way they did in the ED?”
Jack shook his head.
“I can’t see how. Atwood was one of Witner’s disciples, no doubt about it, but there would have been too many variables. Instead of screwing up, that poor intern might have done the right thing and saved Gavin. So, the medical error in the ED had to have been chance.”
“But then Atwood commits suicide,” Zellie mused. “How does that fit? Or does it?”
Jack shook his head.
“I can’t believe we’re thinking seriously there’s some huge conspiracy going on. Tim must be wearing off on me.”
“Don’t drop the thread, Watson. Let’s keep brainstorming.”
“I’m with you, Holmes. By the way, Tim texted me this afternoon. He and Sonia have invited us to their place for dinner tomorrow evening. Like I said before, I don’t want to wear out my welcome.”
“No, I’d like that.”
“They have a place on Lake Stanwick. Beautiful country.”
“I’ll look forward to it. Where were we?”
“I was wondering whether Atwood’s death was just another piece of good luck for Witner.”
“Why would it be good luck for him?” she asked.
“Well, Humphrey would have taken a lot of heat for that error in the ED as time went on, and because they were close, Witner’s reputation would have been tarnished. Witner stood up for h
im.”
“So, Atwood’s suicide focuses attention on him and, thanks to his suicide note, on you, Jack. This is wild, but is there any way Witner could have arranged for that suicide?”
Jack stared into the fire for a moment.
“Well, Witner is the one who claims to have heard the shot and found him.”
“Good God.”
“You see what I mean about the danger in all this?” he said, gazing directly into her eyes for a long moment. Then: “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“I’d love one,” she said. “I’d help, but your best friend’s lying on my feet.”
A few minutes later, coffee mugs in hand, they continued.
“Tell me again the name of that society Greta Carpenter told you about.”
“The Society Carnivalis.”
“What a weird name.”
“Yeah, sounds like the cruise ship line from hell.”
“So, there’s another thing we know—that Dr. Witner belongs to an organization of some kind and keeps records in code. Lord knows what that could mean. Jack, do you have internet out here?”
“Just dial-up, and it’s very slow.”
“Then I’m going to research it first thing tomorrow.”
“And I’m going to try to find that letter. That’s something concrete I could take to Armand Bedford. Right now, like I told you, he thinks Witner’s the greatest thing since light beer. If I go to him with nothing but these suspicions, he’d have me committed. There’s just nothing solid to go on. You’re the writer, Zellie—what would a fictional detective do now?”
“Good question. One of my favorites is Maigret. He was created by the Belgian writer, Georges Simenon.”
Jack shook his head. “Never heard of him.”
“Maigret is very low-key. He follows hunches and asks a lot of questions and looks at things more than once. And he keeps an open mind. Like Columbo.”
Jack heard the side door into the kitchen creak open. Zellie’s back was to the door, and she hadn’t heard it.
Final Mercy Page 23
