Indelible

by Laurie Buchanan

  Taking another lap around the waiting area, his mind replays Cynthia’s voice. “It was Jason. He fell over the cliff, and he’s dead.”

  Using the combined processes of experience and elimination, Dr. Alice Zimmerman approaches Mick, her low heels tapping across the worry-paved flooring as she enters the waiting room.

  The space is designed to calm. Neat and tidy, of course, but with a comfortable, open style, quiet colors, and soothing music meant to tranquilize frayed nerves.

  As she extends her hand, she asks, “Are you the person who escorted Cynthia Winters in the ambulance?”

  “I am. I’m Sean McPherson,” he answers, noting the doctor’s firm, professional handshake. “Is she going to be okay?”

  Seeing the deep lines of worry creased in his forehead, she asks kindly, “Are you a relative?” as she guides them toward two overstuffed chairs angled companionably toward each other and they sit. Her lap is holding a no-nonsense clipboard stayed by the flat palms of her hands. His lap is supporting two fists that he clenches and unclenches in an unconscious effort to relieve anxiety.

  “No. Cynthia’s one of our guests at Pines & Quill.”

  “The writers’ retreat out by the cliffs,” she says, more as confirmation than a question. “I’ve heard of it. First let me say, Ms. Winters is going to be okay. But in addition to suffering from a cluster headache, she’s lost a lot of blood from the wound on her thigh. Thankfully, her femoral artery was only nicked instead of cut or severed. Can you tell me about the circumstances around that?”

  “I don’t understand, what’s a cluster headache? Is it like a migraine?” Mick asks.

  “A cluster headache is one of the most painful types of headaches there is. In fact, they’ve been described as ‘suicide headaches,’ a reference to the excruciating pain and resulting desperation that has culminated in actual suicide. They can be debilitating and last from weeks to months, or vanish as quickly as they arrive and stay in remission for months, even years before recurring.”

  “How do you know that’s what she has? Can you help her?”

  “When I was stitching her leg, she came to long enough to tell me before passing out again.” Cool, calm, and collected, the doctor continues. “Unfortunately, there’s no cure for cluster headaches, but they can be treated with medication to decrease the severity of pain and reduce duration. Right now, we’re treating Ms. Winters with pure oxygen through a breathing mask. The effects of this are usually felt within minutes and provide dramatic relief for most patients.

  “Once she comes around, we’ll get an accurate medical history. If we can rule out high blood pressure and heart disease, we’ll give her an injection of triptans. But Mr. McPherson, you still haven’t told me why Ms. Winters arrived looking like she was tattooed in blood, and how she sustained the trauma on her thigh.”

  “Dr. Zimmerman, all I know about the gash in Cynthia’s leg is that Hemingway”—noting her quizzical look under raised eyebrows, he explains—“he’s my dog,” and then continues, “came and got me. I called my brother-in-law and told him to bring the ATV,” and we took Cynthia back to the main house where an ambulance was waiting to bring her here. That’s the extent of what I know.”

  “What was Ms. Winters doing out in the storm?”

  “I have no idea, but I’m just as anxious to find out as you are.”

  “We’re going to keep her overnight. She’s been through quite an ordeal, and there’s always a potential for shock. Plus, I want to keep an eye out for infection in her leg, and also see if she’s a potential candidate for triptans. By the way, that was some pretty impressive work you did with the sleeve tourniquet,” she says, pausing to look pointedly at his missing shirt. “I’m grateful I didn’t have any resulting complications to clean up after someone who doesn’t know what they were doing. Where did you get your training?”

  “I was on the police force.”

  “Was, as in past tense?” she asks, standing as Mick stands too.

  “That’s correct, I’m no longer active.”

  “It’s their loss,” she says, smiling and extends her hand. “I’m sorry about the circumstances, but it’s a pleasure meeting you.”

  And with that, she turns around and retraces the path on the well-worn floor until double doors shush closed behind her retreating white lab coat.

  Mick’s tired step triggers sensors hidden under the massive, black rubber mat and the automatic sliding doors of the emergency room glide open. As he steps between them, he’s welcomed by a blast of fresh night air and a gravelly smoker’s voice. “Hey, buddy.”

  Mick turns to see Skip, the lead paramedic on Cynthia’s ride to the hospital, also a poker-night friend. His head is shrouded in cigarette smoke.

  “Even though it stopped raining, I figured you might want a ride back home.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  The sole of Skip’s shoe pushes him away from the wall he’d been leaning against while waiting for Mick, and the two men fall into step as they head for the ambulance.

  They ride in companionable silence most of the way. Arriving at the massive wrought-iron entry gate—Welcome to Pines & Quill—Mick thanks Skip for the ride. “I’d prefer to walk the rest of the way to clear my head before answering what’s sure to be a boatload of questions when I get to the main house.”

  Watching the taillights, extinguished by the dark distance, Mick opens the gate that separates hearth and home from the rest of the world. Before starting down the long road, he stands still and draws in the peaceful, after-storm calm.

  A trio of deer wander silently as ghosts on a berm behind rain-drenched trees.

  When he looks up, he sees a sliced moon through leafy branches.

  Inhaling deeply, he breathes in the night air appreciatively and contemplates. In all of the busyness, a person can forget that there are times and places so wondrously still.

  With that thought buoying his mind, Mick walks home through the night-dark woods.

  “Oh, my God!” Emma’s hands fly to her panic-stricken face. “The tea kettle. We were waiting for it to boil when Mick got the call from Niall and we bolted,” she says over her shoulder, already halfway out the door. “I’ll be right back.”

  She rushes down the ramp, arms pumping the pushrims on her chair as she barrels toward Austen cottage, grateful for the glow of the subtle walk lights along the way. The rhythmic slap of rubber wheels against the rain-soaked path is hard-pressed to keep pace with the pounding of Emma’s heart.

  Fueled by hate, Jason transitions his heels over the edge of the horizontal surface. Without a rope, my only chance of reaching the bottom in one piece is to stay upright.

  With his back against the sheer rock wall, he uses his heels for leverage, pulling closer, then lowers his legs over the side until his calves are against the cliff face.

  He knows that gravity is going to work against him as he slides, gaining speed, to the bottom of the precipice. And with that knowledge, injured arm tucked tightly to the front of his torso, he shoves off.

  It feels like someone’s tightening a vice-grip on my head and holding a hot iron to my thigh, Cynthia thinks. Through barely slit eyelids, she scans the dim room illuminated by a soft light over a door with a small window. Her gaze takes in a raised bedside table playing host to a short stack of individually wrapped clear plastic cups, a yellow pitcher, and a matching, kidney-shaped emesis basin. Next to the bed, two upholstered chairs stand sentinel, and a partially opened door reveals a handicap rail attached to the wall next to a toilet.

  Her continued inspection drifts down, taking in her hands—fingers and wrists absent of jewelry—resting on top of a sterile white sheet, and a thin green blanket folded neatly over her legs. From an IV pole, a clear bag of fluid hangs half empty with a tube running to the inside of her right arm. A call button attached to the metal railing around the bed confirms that she’s in a hospital room.

  “Where’s Emma?” Libby asks when she and Dr. Sutton
enter the kitchen.

  “She’ll be right back,” Fran says. “She remembered they left the tea kettle on in their hurry to get here.” Shifting her gaze from Libby’s tired face to Dr. Sutton’s, Fran asks, “Is Hemingway going to be okay?”

  The vet nods. “Yes. With Libby’s help we got him cleaned and stitched up, and now he’s sleeping comfortably until the anesthesia wears off. He’ll be very sore for a while, but right as rain in a few weeks.”

  Dr. Sutton turns to Libby. “Do you still have the Elizabethan collar from Hemingway’s last adventure?”

  “Yes,” Libby confirms.

  “When he wakes up, you’ll need to put it on him, so he’ll leave the dressings alone.”

  “What’s an Elizabethan collar?” Fran asks, her brows scrunched.

  Niall answers. “It looks like a big plastic funnel from his neck, outward, like a giant halo around his face. We called him ‘Bucket Head’ the last time he wore it. It kept him from getting at ointment he would have licked off otherwise.”

  Turning to the vet, Niall says, “Hey, Doc, can I get you some coffee?”

  “I thought you’d never ask. And are those biscuits I smell?”

  “They sure are, let me get you a plate.”

  “Libby,” Officer Chris says, patting the empty seat next to her, “I know you’re tired, but Herb and I need to ask you a few questions to get your perspective on the situation. We’ve already taken statements from Niall and Fran. We’ll try to keep it brief.”

  “Okay. But first, is there any word from Mick?” she asks, looking at Niall.

  Setting a frothy cup in front of both Libby and Herb, Niall says, “Mick called a while ago to let us know they’re keeping Cynthia overnight for observation. He’s catching a ride home with Skip. He said he’d fill us in on the details when he gets here.”

  Through the steam of her cup, Libby watches Chris flip open her notebook as she prepares to take her statement.

  Jason, a strong swimmer, holds his breath when he shoves off the ledge.

  Then he hits the frigid water.

  It feels like glass cutting into his skin when he cannons beneath the crashing waves. Jason knows better than to fight the descent. As the current pulls him deeper, his heartbeat stabs his chest.

  Once the downward progression stops, he uses powerful scissor kicks to follow the barely discernible phosphorescent bubbles from his plunge, back up. He realizes, too late, that being fully dressed is working against him. When his head breaks the surface, he empties his lungs and draws in deep gulps of fresh air.

  As he treads the churning water with one arm, he gets his bearings and makes a quick assessment. His entire body hurts like hell, but he doesn’t think anything’s broken. From the surveillance he’d done while he was supposed to be writing, Jason knows he has to head south and stay next to the cliff where it eventually gives way to a heavily wooded hill. I’ll climb that and cut across Pines & Quill using the darkness as cover to make my way down behind Thoreau cottage into the canyon.

  Exhausted and in pain, Jason crosses a patch of sand, skirting boulders and low rocks. Nearing Pines & Quill, the route roughens. Boulders are larger in spots, spilling at length into the Bay. Not one to discourage easily, he smiles when he thinks about the bottle of Jack and the Beretta that are waiting for him in the backpack he’d stashed in the canyon cave yesterday.

  CHAPTER 18

  “Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book, or for another book; give it, give it all, give it now.”

  —ANNIE DILLARD

  Emma pushes the door-activation button and rushes into Austen cottage, rolling straight through to the kitchen. Grabbing a hot mitt, she yanks the now-empty tea kettle from the flame and sets it on a cork trivet next to the stove, then turns off the burner.

  Shuddering, she tips her head back in relief. That could have been disastrous! In her frantic state, she half expected to see flames from her fiery cottage roof licking treetops when she rounded the bend.

  When Mick enters the kitchen of the main house, he’s swarmed. Everyone wants to know everything about Cynthia. “Who, what, when, where, why, and how?” They pelt him with questions.

  He looks around the room, his eyebrows knit in concern. “Where’s Emma?”

  Fran repeats what she’d told Libby. “She’ll be right back. In her rush to get here, she thinks she left the tea kettle on a lit burner.”

  “Right,” he says, nodding.

  Shifting his gaze to Dr. Sutton, he asks, “How’s Hemingway?”

  “With Libby’s assistance, he’s cleaned, stitched, and sleeping comfortably. At least until the anesthesia wears off. He’s going to be sore for a while, but he’ll recover. I told Libby that when he wakes up in the morning to put the Elizabethan collar on him, so he’ll leave the dressings alone.”

  Clearing her throat, Officer Chris interjects. “We hate to interrupt, but Mick, we need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Sure, but can I have some coffee?” His gaze turns pleadingly to his brother-in-law.

  “You bet,” Niall says. “Have a seat, and I’ll bring you a mug of coffee and a plate of biscuits.”

  “And I’ll bring you one of Niall’s shirts,” Libby adds.

  Opening her notepad, Chris asks, “Do you recall what Ms. Winters said when she regained consciousness in the ambulance?”

  “Yes, she said, ‘It was Jason. He fell over the cliff, and he’s dead.’ And then she passed out again.”

  “Libby told us that Jason’s last name is Hughes and that he’s from Cleveland. Have you seen him since he left after dinner this evening?”

  “No. When we finished dinner, we all went to The Ink Well for drinks and dessert where we had a pretty intense conversation. After that, I thought everyone went back to their cottages. I haven’t seen him since.”

  Herb asks, “What was the ‘intense conversation’ about?”

  “Cynthia explained that she’d done work as a forensic intuitive for several police departments throughout the southwest. Mostly cases involving missing children, and even a few cold cases.”

  Looking from Herb to Chris and back again, Mick continues. “You’re both aware that my partner’s killer has never been caught. It’s considered a cold case. As I’m sure you can imagine, Cynthia’s expertise is of particular interest to me, so I kept asking her questions about how a forensic intuitive works.”

  Between bites of a biscuit, Mick asks, “Are you two ready to head out to the bluff?”

  Chris and Herb look at each other, baffled, then back at Mick.

  “What?” Mick asks. If Sam and I had responded to this call, we wouldn’t hesitate. We’d be out there in a heartbeat.

  Chris answers. “There’s no point in going out tonight Mick. Not in this downpour.”

  “Our flashlights will barely make a dent,” Herb adds. “They pale in comparison to the light of day.”

  “We should try to find him,” Mick says.

  “Ms. Winters said he fell over the cliff. There’s no way he could have survived on a good day, let alone in a storm,” Chris says.

  Herb nods. “We’ll send a team to the bluff tomorrow once things have had a chance to dry a bit. We’ll also send a diving team to the base of the cliff where he fell over, and they’ll search from there.”

  Chris stands. “Thank you. That’ll be all for this evening.” Closing her notebook, she adds, “If any of you remembers anything else that might be helpful, even the smallest detail, please call immediately.”

  Turning to Niall and Libby, she adds, “Thank you for your hospitality.”

  And with that, the two officers take their leave.

  “I better get home, too,” Dr. Sutton says. “And remember, put that Elizabethan collar on Hemingway when he wakes up.” Then setting his cap, he follows Chris and Herb into the night, pulling the door closed behind him.

  Wet, bruised, and chilled to the bone, Jason has one thing on his mind—the bottle of Jack Daniels he stashed in
his backpack and left in the cave yesterday as part of his preparation.

  A soft glow of light catches Jason’s attention as his aching body steals through the wooded grove. Hugging trees for cover, he creeps closer. When he steps onto the smooth-tiled terra cotta patio, he presses his back to the cottage wall, then turns and peers through the sliding glass door. Like a bird of prey, his hooded, storm-gray eyes survey Emma.

  There she sits, in front of the kitchen stove with her head tilted back, throat fully exposed. Its slender column brings to mind dozens of other throats in every shade of skin tone.

  With his right arm still tucked up against his chest, the fingers of his left hand absently thrum the cargo pocket on his thigh. Pleased it’s still there after his swim, he fishes out his knife. A Camillus, it’s served him well on many occasions. It would have been a shame to have lost it on the cliffside or in the bay. His heart beats fast and hard, but not with fear, with fierce exhilaration. He feels a flow of heady exuberance.

  Well-oiled, he knows the blade barely whispers when deployed. Tucking his thumb under the thumb-stud, he pushes it up and out, admiring its razor-sharp edge. Lost in reverie, he flicks it open and shut, tapping it against his thigh, again and again, with brooding deliberation as he imagines what he can do to Emma’s lovely white throat with it.

  Movement in his peripheral vision brings him back from his fantasy. When he realizes that Emma’s rolling her wheelchair toward the front door, he runs around the side of the cottage and hides behind a large tree along the pathway.

  As she passes him, unseen, he steps out behind her wheelchair and grabs one of the handles, halting it. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?” he asks.