Until Death

by Alicia Rasley

  “You’re not actually going in there,” I said.

  “You have a better idea?”

  I didn’t, of course, but on its own, my hand reached out and touched his arm as he took the tire iron. He didn’t notice; his attention was all on the water, and I could sense him calculating: the current, the distance, the risk.

  There was a blinding light and then a sharp crack. Across the river a tree crashed into the water. Did lightning travel through water? Was Mike risking electrocution as well as drowning?

  He didn’t even glance up at the lightning strike. He just slid down the bank and into the water, and walked out as far as he could, holding the tire iron in his left hand. I ran back to the car for a flashlight and shone it over the river. The light ricocheted red off the roof of Will’s car, and I saw the water parting around it. The windows would be closed, and there must still be air in there. But then I saw the precariousness of it all, the back of the car hung up on a log but the front moving slightly in the swift current.

  Mike slid through the water, letting the current carry him towards the car. His body slammed into the driver’s side door. I saw him hanging on to the door handle with one hand and using the other to smash the window with the tire iron—the water rushing in, the car unbalanced by the force, Mike half into the window . . . and the car breaking free and hurtling downstream.

  My throat closed. I dashed the water out of my eyes and ran to the van, flinging open the door and scrambling in. I didn’t have time to think about the dangers. I just shoved the car into gear and slowly pulled forward, hoping Mike had hold of Will, hoping I didn’t drag him right into a boulder, hoping the rope wouldn’t break. Where was the goddamned ambulance?

  After twenty feet I stopped, jumped back out of the car and ran along beside the now-slack rope to the bank. I strained to see through the darkness, to hear through the tumult, and then sagged with relief against a tree. Mike was already on the bank, dragging Will’s slumped body up into the long wet grass.

  I slid down to meet him and grabbed hold of Will’s sodden shirt. Together we pulled him up to the road level, and Mike stretched him out. I held the flashlight as he made a quick examination. When he started performing CPR, I gasped and the flashlight wavered in my hand. Then I heard the wail of the siren, and Will’s watery cough, and steadied myself.

  “Is he breathing?”

  “Yeah. He didn’t take in much water. Just shock. He must have hit the steering wheel.”

  Now I could see the gash on Will’s forehead, the blood flowing pink in the rain, and I ran back to the car for the first-aid kit. I stuffed a wad of gauze into Mike’s hand and he pressed it against the cut.

  Will was frighteningly pale and still, but Mike said, “He’ll make it. His collarbone is broken, looks like, but there’s no skull fracture that I can tell.”

  Finally, the ambulance arrived, and the paramedics took over, scooping Will onto a stretcher, setting up an IV, radioing back to the hospital. They knew Mike and exchanged a barrage of ominous-sounding medical detail as they shoved the stretcher into the ambulance.

  Mike took my arm and led me back to my car. There was a streak of mud on his cheek, gradually giving way to the rain. “I’m going along with them. You okay to drive?”

  “I’m fine.” I wasn’t. My whole body shook from the cold and the panic. But I could drive.

  He touched my shoulder and then crossed the road and got into the back of the ambulance.

  AFTER THE STORM, the hospital was too brightly lit, and the air-conditioning made me shiver uncontrollably. An orderly noticed me and brought a blanket over. I asked, through chattering teeth, “Did they bring in an accident victim?”

  “Well, sure. Four or five. Dirty night.”

  “This is a man. By ambulance. Dr. Warren was with him.”

  “Oh, yeah, he’s on his way up to the orthopedics ward. Couple broken bones.”

  “Is he conscious?”

  “Not when I saw him. But you can check with Ortho.”

  Ortho said it would be a while and asked if I knew who his next of kin was. I did. I’d helped his mother with her tax return when she cashed in her Netmore stock options for astronomical capital gains. “Margaret Bowie. She lives in Arizona. Does this mean it’s bad?”

  The nurse said reassuringly, “No, we just like to notify next of kin as soon as possible so they can arrange for discharge.”

  That sounded good, and so did the phone call I overheard, sitting there in the lounge with a magazine in my clammy hands. “Fair condition, Mrs. Bowie. But he’ll be fine. Concussion, broken bones, but he’s conscious now and lucid. Oh, here’s Dr. Warren. He brought your son in. I’ll let him tell you.”

  I twisted to see Mike, washed up and in enviably dry surgical greens, take the phone. He said something reassuring and handed it back to the nurse. When he caught sight of me, he smiled. “You look pretty miserable. I guess you didn’t go home.”

  “No, I wanted to make sure he was okay first.”

  “He’s okay. So go home and get in bed.”

  I shook my head. “I’ll just wait till I can see him.”

  Mike sighed. “Get cleaned up first, or he’s going to think you ended up in the river too. There are some shirts on sale down in the gift shop.”

  As eventful as the evening had been, I was amazed to learn it was only nine p.m. and the gift shop was open for another hour. I bought some makeup and a sweatshirt and retreated to the ladies’ room to make myself presentable. My hair was a mass of tangles, so it was almost a quarter of an hour before I emerged, sweat shirted, but still sandaled, back into the Ortho ward.

  “Much better,” Mike said. He led me down the corridor towards the patient rooms. As we passed, a uniformed man sitting in a plastic chair nodded at Mike.

  “A security guard?” I said. “Who got him?”

  “I did.”

  I hate a laconic man. He makes me do all the work. “You think Will needs guarding.”

  He took my hand and drew me into an empty room. “He’s a wealthy man. On an IV. I thought it would be best if potential heirs were dissuaded from hurrying him along.”

  “Potential heirs? His mother is his heir. You talked to her. She’s distraught.”

  He shrugged. “Or anyone else.”

  The light dawned. “You believe me. You do, don’t you? Not just to help me out, you really believe me that Murdoch is dangerous.”

  “I was always open to the possibility. Now I’m worried.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of the way he had to swerve to plow through the trees that way. Even drunk, it wouldn’t be natural to turn that sharply, except to avoid something ahead. We got there only a couple minutes later, and there was nothing on the road. No downed tree, no broken limb.”

  “So it’s the dog that didn’t bark in the night.” I knew, somehow, that he would understand my Sherlock reference—that what wasn’t there was the evidence.

  “Right. The only motive is the land and the lawsuit. And that does put the suspicion squarely on the other party in the lawsuit.”

  “Do you remember that pickup truck? It passed us as we turned onto Roncalli.” A farmer would own a pickup, of course. In fact, in one of those news reports about the lawsuit, I’d seen Murdoch leaning against his truck.

  “There wasn’t much traffic on that road tonight.”

  “Well, there’s only Will’s house. The rest of the land is too low to build on. So if he’d followed Will to the bar, he’d just have to wait, and eventually Will would come up that road. And Will wouldn’t see what was on the other side of that sharp bend till he got all the way around it.”

  “No reason to take chances here.”

  A chill settled over me that even the out-of-season sweatshirt couldn’t cure. I’d been so preoccupied worryi
ng about Will’s health, I hadn’t thought this through. Accidents happen on nights like this, after all, and Will had been drinking and driving too fast. But Mike was right; caution was in order.

  Will was awake, more or less, and looking disgruntled. His hair was brushed back but still muddy, and his arm was in a sling. But he made an effort to be gracious when we came in. “Hey, Meggie. Sorry to blow your evening.”

  “That’s okay. I didn’t have any big plans.”

  “And . . .” He turned his head gingerly towards Mike. “I hear I owe you one, man.”

  Mike looked up briefly from the chart. “No problem.”

  Card-carrying feminist though I am, I have to admit that this understated expression of great heroism impressed me as very, well, manly. Will accepted it with the same laconic guy-ness. “Let me know if you need anything then. I mean it.”

  If I were Mike, I’d take the opportunity to hit him up for a Maserati (that’s what I expected for my own minor role in Will’s continued existence), or at least a big donation to the local mental health agency. But Mike just went back to the chart with the offhanded reply, “Yeah, okay.” All part of the job, I guess—diving into a raging river in the middle of the night to extricate an unconscious drunk from an accordioned car. “Dr. Atroku prescribed some Percocet, so you should be able to sleep.”

  “I’m pretty banged up, huh?”

  “You’ll make it. She wants to put a pin into that shoulder tomorrow, but don’t worry. She’s one of the best orthopedists in the Midwest, so you’ll get the mobility back.”

  “That’s good,” Will said with a weak laugh. “I have a tryout next spring with the Yankees.”

  “So,” Mike said casually, still scanning the chart, “what do you remember?”

  Will’s eyes narrowed as he considered this. “Not much. Coming around the bend. Seeing that road barrier. I guess I slammed on my brakes and skidded. And then hydro-planed. I remember seeing the trees going by. That’s all.”

  “Road barrier?” I echoed.

  “One of those sawhorses with the flashing lights. Like when there’s a pothole.”

  Mike and I exchanged a glance.

  “There was no sawhorse when we got there,” Mike said.

  “That’s what the cop said.” Will looked mulish under the cap of white bandages. “Okay, I was a little drunk, but I don’t hallucinate. It was right there, big as life, beyond that bend.”

  “Maybe the person who put it there got scared when he saw he’d caused an accident,” I suggested, “and hauled it away before we got there.”

  “Yeah,” Will said, his frown clearing. “That’s probably what happened. I mean, I know that’s not going to get rid of a traffic charge, but I don’t want them to think I’m crazy besides. I’m in enough trouble as is. And my car—”

  “Tommy’s going to be so upset when he hears that the Diablo ended up down under the dam,” I said, trying to lighten things up.

  Mike replaced the chart. “Tell him to feel sorry for the adjustor, who’s somewhere crying in his beer. The insurance company will have to spring for a brand new one.”

  “Yellow this time,” Will said sleepily.

  I was weary with relief. Will would be okay, and I didn’t have to wonder if I could have prevented his accident. Well, I still had to wonder that, being that eldest child of a perfectionist mother, but now at least I knew the worst had been averted.

  “Let me drive you home,” Mike said. “You can pick up your car tomorrow.”

  The choice between his nice dry Jag and my soaking wet van was an easy one. Once in the car, he turned on the heat and said, “It’s time to go back to the police.”

  “I know, but if they say I’m nuts again, I don’t know what I’ll do.” I paused, gathered my courage, and asked, “Will you go with me?”

  “Sure.”

  I should have let it rest, but I couldn’t. “Just to be nice? Or because you agree with me?”

  He drove out of the parking lot and turned left before he answered. “I think that the danger in ignoring the possibility of murder is greater now than the danger of pursuing it.”

  I just wished for once he would give in. Concede. Commit. “Do you always have to be so . . . neutral? Where’s your passion?”

  “I save that for something other than theories.”

  Like what? I almost asked. But didn’t. What if he said . . . well, what most men would say? Then I’d have to think of him like most men. And not my sage, if extremely annoying, sort-of reality check. “But you’ll go with me. Tomorrow.”

  “I’ll check in at the hospital, and we can go down to the police station together. But,” he said—he never seemed to concede anything without exacting a price, “you have to promise to be careful. If Murdoch did this, he’s more dangerous than we anticipated. He’s got too much invested now. He won’t let anyone get in his way.”

  “He doesn’t know I’m on to him.”

  “He has taken notice of you though. So you might be extra-cautious until this gets resolved. Do you have an alarm system?”

  “Yes, of course.” All single moms who could afford it had alarms.

  “And keep your cell phone by the bed. In case he cuts the phone wires.”

  “Dear Dr. Warren, have you ever heard the term paranoid?”

  “You’re one to talk. You’re probably still carrying around that pen.”

  I patted my purse to make sure. “That’s evidence. Not paranoia. As long as Murdoch doesn’t know I have it, I’m safe. But just to make you feel better, I’ll be careful, not that I’m ever not careful. I always check my doors and set the alarm.”

  “Good. Make sure you do it tonight.”

  More soberly I said, “Do you think he’s losing control?”

  “Murdoch? No. Precisely the opposite. I think the first killing—if there was one—was an accident. This one was just made to look like an accident. He must have planned it meticulously, once he heard the storm was on its way. Kept a watch on Bowie and noted his habit of stopping in at Gillie’s after work, and made use of it. And if we hadn’t been right behind—”

  “He would have gotten away with it.”

  “You’ll have to tell Bowie,” Mike said. “You owe him that much.”

  “Yeah, and eventually he’ll notice that security guard and wonder what’s up. Tomorrow morning. Before we go to the police.”

  The summer rain, weirdly enough, had turned to sleet by the time we pulled into my driveway. It pattered gently on the car roof, like a drum roll. Most of it melted as soon as it hit the wet ground, but on the front porch it gathered in snow-like clumps. I wished Tommy was here. I wished I had a real camera handy to record this snow in July. I wished . . . I wished I didn’t have to get out of the car and walk that dozen yards to the front door.

  “You’re tired,” he said.

  “If I’m tired, you must be exhausted.”

  “Not really.” He reached across me, I thought for the door handle, but then his hand was on my shoulder, and I could feel its heat through the sweatshirt thickness. He tugged me slightly so I was facing him, and I saw a similar heat in his dark eyes. Oh, no, was all I had time to think before he leaned over to kiss me.

  Chapter Eighteen

  IT HAD BEEN A long time since a man kissed me, more than a year since that last desperate encounter with Don. I tried to remember when that was, but thoughts of that other kiss slipped away as Mike pulled me closer. Oh, no, I thought again.

  “Oh, yes,” he murmured against my lips.

  I drew back an inch or so. “Stop reading my mind.”

  “I didn’t. I heard you.”

  I could feel how soft his hair was, fresh from a rain-water shower, and realized my hand had curled around his neck. I pulled it back to safety by my side. And I pulled my bod
y back squarely into its own seat. I had not anticipated this, and I had no response—except the dangerous one. “But you didn’t tell me.” I was too disoriented to make much sense of the present situation. The past was clearer to me—and the past indicted him. “You let me think you just wanted to help me out, or just to interfere. You didn’t tell me you were interested in . . . this.”

  “If I had,” he said reasonably, opening his car door and climbing out as if nothing untoward had happened, “you would have slammed the door, and I wouldn’t have been able to help you.”

  I fumbled in my pocket for keys. “When? When you saw me, in session with Don, was that what you felt?” I asked, but I didn’t want to know. Had to know, but didn’t want to know.

  The playfulness was gone from his voice now. “Don’t worry. I didn’t feel much of anything at all then. Just going through the motions.”

  I remembered those awful months when he’d seemed so still, so gentle and remote. We hadn’t ever . . . touched in that way. I would have noticed, wouldn’t I? But maybe not. I hadn’t noticed even this last week. Or maybe I had and ignored it—the protective way he’d touch me, the bodyguard vibes, the instant antagonism with Will.

  “But now?” We were on the porch. He opened the screen door for me, and I managed to unlock the deadbolt. I felt disoriented but calm. I would be nervous later.

  He followed me in. I didn’t object. I wanted to hear what it was he had to say. “I don’t mean to use you. But you make me feel again. And it’s not as bad as I thought it would be.”

  “Thank you,” I said ironically. My legs suddenly gave out, and I dropped onto the couch.

  He remained standing, looking at me. Still reasonable, still calm. “You make me want to feel again. To laugh again. To argue again. I think . . . I could be intense again. And I won’t burn up.”

  He was a long way away—all the way across the room. I drew my knees up, hunched my shoulders, and said, “I don’t trust any of this. You know I don’t. You of all people know that.”

  “I know. You don’t trust this. But you trust me.”