by Lyn Cote
“There was a robbery at Ollie’s convenience store.” With her free hand, she smoothed the pillow beside his face.
Then the robbery, its sights and sounds—that girl’s shocked expression, the robber’s harsh commands—flooded his mind. “Is that girl…? That Hendricks girl—is she okay?”
Sylvie squeezed his hand. “She’s fine. And so are you. You just got a bad bump on the back of your head. And you’ve been out for a long time.”
“What time is it?” He moved his head on the pillow and yes, he had gotten a bump on his head. It ached like crazy.
“It’s nearly seven o’clock. The sheriff, Ben and my dad just went down to get something to eat before the hospital cafeteria closed for the night. I told him I would stay and explain everything to you if you woke up while he was gone.”
Ridge lifted his head briefly. The room swirled in front of his eyes. He groaned silently and laid his head back on the pillow.
“Do you remember what happened to you?” she asked, again smoothing his pillow, her soft hand grazing his face.
He struggled to remember, clamping his eyes shut, trying to pull up the images that must lie buried in his memory. Finally he began to see them. “I was chasing the robber. I was behind Ollie’s store and…someone hit me from behind.”
“That’s what Tanya Hendricks said happened. She said you must have been hit from behind. She found you on the path, facedown, bleeding from the back of the head. She was the one who called the police.”
Ridge squirmed on the bed, preparing to try again to lift his splitting head from the pillow. Because somehow it was imperative that he face this situation sitting up.
Sylvie pressed his shoulder down. “Don’t get up yet. The doctor said that would only make the headache worse.”
“Well, that’s what he says,” Ridge complained. “Frankly I think I would be better if I sat up and didn’t put pressure on the bump. It hurts like the blazes.”
She chuckled softly and reached for his bed control handset. “Okay, why don’t we use the controls? We’ll let power raise your head.” Slowly the head of his bed rose until he was almost sitting up. “Is that better?”
He began to nod yes and stopped himself, grimacing with another acute twinge of pain. He hated to be so helpless in front of Sylvie. He felt his neck and face flaming with embarrassment. He avoided Sylvie’s eyes.
The nurse bustled in and took his vitals, handed him pills in a little paper cup and told him to swallow them. She hurried out.
“My father called your parents about your injury.” Sylvie looked away. Seeing Ridge in a hospital bed had shaken her. And he looked embarrassed to be caught by her in this weakened state. She hadn’t considered that particular reaction from him. I should have. But all she’d wanted to do was be with him, to be reassured that he was really all right.
She fought the urge to touch him again, hold his hand in hers. She made herself turn away and sit down in the bedside chair. “Your parents were glad to hear that you weren’t seriously hurt. They didn’t come since you would be released in the morning anyway. And you would be home tomorrow.” Sylvie couldn’t imagine her father behaving like this if she’d just been the one attacked.
“I’ve been knocked unconscious before. Not often. But a few times. In my line of work, it happens. They’ve gotten used to it.”
Sylvie hadn’t thought of this before. Maybe part of the reason Ridge’s parents shut him out wasn’t just losing Dan. Maybe Ridge’s being in law enforcement made them fearful. Fearful of losing their only remaining son.
“Did they get him?” Ridge asked, interrupting her thoughts. “Did they get the guy with the sawed-off shotgun?”
“No, they didn’t. But you’re fine.” She realized then that she was still tense. Too many dangerous events, too close for comfort. “And Tanya was unharmed. That’s what’s important, right?”
Ridge did not look as if he agreed though he shrugged slightly.
Ben and her dad appeared at the doorway. “He’s awake!” Ben ran to Ridge, but halted a step from his bedside.
Sylvie said a quick prayer. Ridge, please offer your hand to Ben.
Whether by divine intervention or by instinct, Ridge did offer his hand to his ward. “Don’t worry about me, Ben. I’m pretty tough.”
Ben took Ridge’s hand briefly. Relief was etched over his young face. Sometimes Sylvie forgot that it had been less than a year since this young boy had lost his parents. She was grateful when her father walked over to stand behind Ben. He put both his hands on Ben’s shoulders. It was a comforting but very masculine gesture. She wondered suddenly if her father had ever wanted a son.
“I’ve been telling Ben you’re tough,” Milo agreed. “I told him you’d probably be ready to go ice-fishing with us in a couple of days.”
“Sounds like fun,” Ridge said, but without any real evidence of pleasure.
Sylvie hid a grin. To her dad, a good day fishing fixed everything.
“Keir went home,” Milo said. “He said you should come in to the department when you feel up to it. He said something about an FBI agent coming tomorrow.”
“FBI?” Ridge repeated.
Milo smiled. “That should perk you up. A date with the FBI is just what you needed to get you back in gear.”
But the mention of the FBI tightened all Sylvie’s muscles. So the FBI had checked out ELF. What would the FBI have to say about Ginger’s assistant professor’s theories about ecoterrorists?
Sylvie rose, hoping her tense reaction didn’t show. “We should be leaving you, then. They told us you need your rest.”
Ridge looked disgruntled. In farewell, Ben and her dad in turn gripped Ridge’s hand.
Resisting the urge to kiss Ridge goodbye on the cheek, she smoothed his blanket. Then she waved and followed Ben and Milo from the room. Ridge, leave Winfield soon. My resistance to loving you and letting it show is nearly spent.
But maybe the FBI visit would allow Ridge to go back to Madison. Conflicting emotions struggled within her. I want Ridge to stay. I want him to go.
March 17
The next morning, Ridge approached Sylvie’s bookshop from the rear. His head still ached. But he’d felt worse. After leaving the hospital, he’d stopped by the Sheriff’s Department. There he’d been told that the sheriff had gone to Ginger’s apartment with the FBI agent sent to investigate any connection between Ginger’s murder and ecoterrorism.
Ridge wanted to speak to the FBI agent face-to-face. Then he’d get a feel about whether he should trust what the agent had to say and he was curious about what the FBI might have uncovered. He hoped it would be substance not just steam. Experience had taught him long ago it only took one good break to solve a case. That’s all it usually ever took, but it could be so frustrating waiting for that one slipup by the perpetrator. Or a valid witness would give one clue; something they finally remembered seeing or hearing or knowing would surface in their consciousness. And like someone whisking off a mask, this fact would reveal the perpetrator. Had someone in Winfield forgotten something crucially important?
With cautious steps, he let himself in the back door where just two weeks ago Sylvie and Ben had found Ginger’s lifeless body. For the first time, he wondered if it bothered Sylvie to work so close to the place where she and her family had suffered such a loss. He pushed these thoughts aside and trudged up the steps. Just inside Ginger’s apartment, he found Keir and a stranger, dressed in a gray trench coat over a dark suit.
The introductions were accomplished quickly. The FBI agent, Kinkade, got right down to facts. “I don’t think that Miss Johnson’s murder is connected to any of the ecoterrorists in my jurisdiction.”
“Then there are some in northern Wisconsin?” Ridge asked, feeling vindicated.
“Yes, unfortunately. South of here near Crandon, a mining company has been trying to start up new lead mining operations for the past few years. The law-abiding environmentalists have been vigorously campaigning against this. Bu
t unfortunately, it has attracted some crazies and they’ve damaged some property. And sent some threatening letters to various mining officials and townspeople who were in favor of the new mine.”
“But Kinkade says that none of them have any history of violence or any connection with any group from the Northwest,” Keir added.
Hearing the sound of steps on the staircase, Ridge hoped it wasn’t Sylvie coming up. And he wasn’t completely convinced that the FBI agent had it together. But he wasn’t going to try to persuade Kinkade. What he wanted now was some more information. “Do you know, Kinkade, of any extreme militants in this area?”
“None.” Kinkade’s tone held no doubt.
Then Sylvie appeared at the door of Ginger’s apartment. Keir waved her in.
“I heard voices.” She looked drawn and paler than usual.
The memory of her gentle touch last night curled through him. A desire to protect her swept through him like wildfire. Concerned about her and about this reaction, he watched her face but held his hands at his sides.
“I’m so glad to see you up and about, Ridge,” she said, glancing at him.
Grinning, Kinkade stepped forward, hand outstretched. “I’m Vince Kinkade.”
Keir performed the introductions.
Ridge noted the way the man was looking at Sylvie, who was attractively dressed as always. She was a striking woman.
To Ridge’s relief, the sheriff thanked Kinkade for coming. That didn’t leave Kinkade any choice but to leave.
And Ridge listened to the man return down the steps and a few minutes later to the sound of his SUV driving away.
“I’ll be going back to my shop, then,” Sylvie said, turning to go down the steps.
With effort Ridge stood where he was and let her go. Compelling memories of her soft hand holding his last night taunted him.
Keir studied Ridge. “Do you have any idea who it might have been robbing Ollie’s store yesterday or who gave you that blow on the head?”
It took a moment for Ridge to switch gears. His head still ached. “I’ve been thinking about that. I don’t think it can have anything to do with Ginger’s death. But I think I know who might have done it.”
March 19
It was Saturday afternoon. Sylvie found herself at the Matthewses’ back door. Standing there took her back to the days when she used to come knocking to rouse Dan to come out and ride bikes, a bittersweet memory. But she had a question she must ask Ridge and it had drawn her here irresistibly.
She shivered in the cold. But beside the door, a welcome purple crocus peeped out from the snow. The door opened and she was face-to-face with Ridge’s mother. “Hello,” Sylvie said with a smile. “Is Ridge around?”
“Ridge!” The woman called over her shoulder but did not return Sylvie’s smile; she merely stepped back to allow Sylvie to enter. Then after a brief greeting and offering condolences over the loss of Ginger, she left the immaculate room.
Mrs. Matthews always treated Sylvie that way. Sylvie tried not to take it personally. But she was grateful to see Ridge come into the kitchen.
“Has something happened?” Ridge asked.
She didn’t blame him. Only a murder and burglaries linked them. Otherwise, he would be in Madison now. “No, but I just wondered if you would like to take a drive…or something.” Then we can be alone and talk. Of course, that was the last thing she should want but she had to ask Ridge, right?
“Sure.” Ridge reached for his overcoat and ushered Sylvie out of his parents’ house as if he realized how uncomfortable it was for her and for his parents to have her there.
From his seat by the bar’s smudged window, he looked down the empty street toward Milo’s Bait and Tackle Shop. He’d been here, down the waterfront from Milo’s, watching, waiting and hoping for a chance. The chance had come. The old man and the kid had schlepped out to ice-fish in the old guy’s shack. Then he’d seen that pretty blonde come out and walk away. So the apartment was empty.
He swallowed the rest of his stale beer, got up and walked outside into the brisk wind. Should he enter by the rear or by the front—the question he’d mulled over had finally been decided. From the alley, he walked onto the shoveled path to the rear entrance of the shop. And mounted the stairs to the apartment. He slid the glass cutter out of his pocket. After his first “visit,” he couldn’t count on their continuing their usual practice of not locking the doors. So he figured it wouldn’t be as easy this time. He’d come prepared.
Ridge drove Sylvie along the shore of frozen Superior, heading back toward Milo’s shop. He’d wanted to see Sylvie today and had been fighting the temptation to seek her out.
He’d even told Milo he wasn’t up to ice-fishing yet, giving his recent head injury as an excuse for not joining Milo and Ben. And all for nothing. Here he was with Sylvie anyway. “What is it you wanted to discuss?” he asked.
“I was curious about why that FBI agent was in town. I’ve heard all kinds of odd theories—from a bank robbery south of here, to the robbery at Ollie’s.”
“They’re all wrong.” Gossip annoyed him as usual, but he kept that from his voice. Sylvie sitting so near was temptation. Why was it increasingly difficult to ignore her as he had in the past? You never ignored her, his conscience taunted him. You just always left town fast.
Ridge gripped the wheel with both hands and cleared his throat. “Kinkade was here to let us know that he doesn’t think terrorists could have anything to do with what happened to Ginger.”
She nodded. “I was afraid of that. It’s been a little over two weeks since her murder. Have you made any progress?” She bent her elbow and leaned on the door, and rested her forehead on the window, looking as if her head pained her. “Is there any hope?”
He finished cutting a four-inch square out of the window on the outside door. He tapped the square and the glass fell inside, shattering with a soft tinkling sound. His thick sweatshirt sleeve protecting his wrist, he reached inside and felt for the doorknob. Found it, turned it and let himself in. So far so good.
He stood in the quiet apartment, listening for any sound that would alert him that he might not be alone. Last time he’d thought it was empty but he’d had to knock out that pretty blonde. Nothing. He quickly opened, rifled and slammed kitchen drawers. Nothing. He flung open kitchen cabinets feeling around the bottom of each one for any kind of bulge or concealment. Nothing. He cursed.
In the living room he began pulling down books and magazines, tossing them helter-skelter. There wasn’t any other place it could be. It had to be here. I have to find it before it’s too late.
Ridge didn’t appreciate Sylvie’s question about progress on the case. But he recognized his annoyance resulted from the fact he and the sheriff hadn’t made any headway. Someone was looking for something that evidently they were willing to kill for. He still didn’t know what it was. Was the FBI agent correct? Or was there something to do with Ginger’s research that someone wanted to stop and the FBI had missed it?
“Sorry,” she apologized, touching his sleeve. “I know I shouldn’t ask you. It’s all so frustrating. And I’m sure you’re the most frustrated of us all. You wanted to take Ben to that school. And now you just want to get home to Madison, don’t you?”
When he heard her final question, something happened that Ridge hadn’t expected. Suddenly he felt that of all the places in the world he could be right now, he was right where he wanted to be. Sitting here next to Sylvie Patterson. The realization made it impossible for him to speak for a few moments.
And made him regret that he’d chosen to drive her directly home instead of taking a more circuitous route.
He heard footsteps coming up and cursed silently. Only one exit. He had to go through the door he’d come in. From under his thick sweatshirt, he dragged out the snowmobiling mask and pulled it on. He ran straight to the one door and out. The old man and the kid were halfway up the steps. He barreled down the stairs right at them. He knocked the old guy into t
he kid. They fell back and sprawled on the steps. He leaped over them. As he hit the sidewalk he stumbled, got back on his feet and raced for the alleyway. He heard the shout, “Stop, thief!” Yeah, right.
Ridge heard the shout. Milo was sprawled at the foot of the stairs to the apartment. Ben, jumping up and down, waved to Ridge from Milo’s side. Ridge slowed and pressed the electric switch that lowered the window.
“That guy was in our apartment!” Milo bellowed.
“The guy wearing the snowmobiling mask!” Ben shrieked, pointing toward the alley. “He just went that way!”
At the mention of a snowmobiling mask, Ridge pressed the accelerator all the way to the floor. Was this the same guy who’d robbed Ollie’s? At the corner, Ridge careened toward the alleyway. A man in a snowmobiling mask slipped between houses. Ridge gunned the motor again and they careened around the next corner to cut him off.
But the guy never emerged on the next street.
Ridge backtracked. He drove up and down the nearest alleys and streets. Finally, watching the area intently, he slowed and pulled out his cell phone. He punched his speed dial and told the sheriff what had happened, leaving the details of the APB and the house-to-house search up to Sheriff Harding.
Then Ridge caught sight of Deputy Josh on patrol and flashed his lights to wave him down. Josh pulled alongside. As Ridge was filling him in, Josh’s radio came to life, ordering all deputies to the waterfront for a house-to-house search.
“I’m going to walk home.” Sylvie started to get out.
“No!” Ridge ordered. “You could be the one the suspect is looking for.”
She frowned but didn’t argue.
Then Keir Harding roared up behind Ridge. And another deputy. Keir got busy instructing his deputies on how to proceed.
“Ridge,” Sylvie pleaded, “my father may be hurt.”
Keir nodded and asked Ridge to take her home and protect Milo’s place, the crime scene.
Ridge felt he was their best eyewitness but reluctantly drove back to Milo’s Bait and Tackle Shop. “Your apartment is a crime scene now. We’ll just go and get your dad and Ben and make sure they are okay.”
