Engaged to Die

by Carolyn Hart

  The petty officers looked toward their commander. At Captain Dooley’s nod, the handcuffs were loosed. The commander’s head moved a fraction. The petty officers, one storklike thin, the other a blunt-headed giant, rested their hands on their weapons.

  Brown rubbed at his wrists. His puffy face took on a look of cajolement. “Anybody can make a mistake. All I did was jump out in front of her bike. Yeah. Maybe I gave a yell. I didn’t know she’d crash the bike, knock herself out.”

  Annie looked at Billy. How about the broken brick with its bloodied end? But Billy just nodded. “So the bike crashed?”

  Brown massaged his beard-stubbled face. His high voice was smooth with satisfaction when he continued. “Yeah. That’s right. I thought it was her”—he jerked his head toward Annie—“so I picked her up.” He stopped, his gaze furtive.

  “And then?” Billy was impatient.

  Brown shifted his big body.

  Annie almost shouted out that he was a liar and not a very good one, but Max gave her a reminding nudge.

  Brown rubbed his neck. “Guess I was pretty drunk. I woke up and hell, I was out there on the water.” He made a sweeping gesture with his soft hand. “It’s kind of hard to remember. But she got knocked out, and I hauled her along with me.” His eyes brightened. “Yeah, I was going to take her to a doctor. Me, I help people. Sure, I do. But I was in my boat, not a car, so I couldn’t take her to the hospital. I carried her down to the marina and was putting her in the boat. When I du—set her down, her head lolled back and I saw this dark red hair. I thought that was pretty funny.” He glared at Annie. “The bitch over there, she’s blond.”

  Annie caught Max’s arm, held it tight. This time it was she who gave the cautionary look. She shook her head. Slowly, Max’s taut muscles relaxed, but his blue eyes burned with anger.

  “Anyway, there she was. I guess I wasn’t thinking too straight. I got a rowboat and tied it to my stern. I thought I’d pull the boat around close to the main harbor. See”—his voice was more confident—“I figured somebody’d find the boat and call nine-one-one.”

  Billy’s gaze swung around the harbor. “Nobody’s reported a rowboat adrift. Where did you leave the boat?”

  “Yeah, well”—Brown’s eyes shifted away—“that’s what I was gonna do, but it was dark and I guess I lost hold of the rope somehow. I don’t know where that boat is.”

  Captain Dooley pointed toward the captive motor-boat. “There’s a line trailing from the back of the motorboat. But it was cut.”

  Annie clapped her hands together, pressed them so hard they hurt, stared at Brown. “You took her out there”—she pointed to the water stretching as far as the eye could see—“and cut the boat loose? And she was unconscious?”

  Brown looked at the ground, lifted his shoulders, let them fall. “Hell, I don’t know what happened.” His voice was a mumble, scarcely heard. “Didn’t know who she was. The boat got away….”

  Dark clouds laced across the horizon, a warning smudge at the base of the blue sky. The wind gusted.

  Billy looked at the commander of the cutter. “We need an all-out search.”

  Captain Dooley squinted against the sun. “There’s two and a half, maybe three hours of daylight left. We’ll call Air Station Savannah and see if we can get a C-130 deployed. We’ll give it our best effort.”

  Max drove fast. Annie held the cell phone close. “Henny, listen, get on the phone. Get Pamela Potts to help and Laurel and everybody you can think of. Roust out everybody who has a boat. Chloe Martin’s unconscious and adrift in a rowboat. We’re searching from Betsy Ross Reef to Hunting Island Reef and everything to the west. And there’s a front coming in. We’re on our way to the marina. A lot of boats have already left the main harbor.”

  The Maserati slewed to a stop by the marina.

  Annie continued talking as they ran for the steps, shouting to be heard over the clatter of their steps. “Call me if you hear that anybody finds her. We’re going to head out now. Thanks, Henny.”

  Max led the way. As they ran along the dock, Annie fumbled in her pocket. She’d tucked Bob Winslow’s card—yes, there it was. As they climbed into their speedboat and Max cast off the line, she punched in Winslow’s number.

  “H’lo.” Short, brusque, scared.

  “Bob, Annie Darling.” The motor roared. Annie slapped one hand over an ear. “Bob,” she yelled,

  “here’s what’s happened….” As the boat nosed out of the harbor, picked up speed, raced with a whop-whopwhop over the whitecaps, Annie explained, “…and if you have a boat…” Spray curled in a lace ribbon, spattering the windshield, misting over them. “Good. Right. We’re looking, too. Right. Good luck, Bob.”

  Annie pulled on a slicker, steered while Max donned his. They followed a zigzag path. Annie peered through binoculars. At first they talked eagerly, excited when they spotted another boat, exchanging shouts, but time raced fast as a greyhound, and the sun began its inexorable descent, lower and lower in the winter sky, until there was only a splash of scarlet above the storm clouds that bulked like a humpbacked whale on the western horizon.

  Finally Annie lowered the binoculars. She didn’t say anything. It was too dark to see. They could be within twenty yards of a drifting boat and miss it in the twilight.

  Slowly Max curved the boat around, headed for home.

  Annie flinched as lightning flared. When the storm struck, how high would the waves be? Out of control, the boat might easily tip and swamp. If it remained upright, Chloe would spend the night unprotected in the open. Rain would most likely seal her fate. It wouldn’t take long for hypothermia to set in.

  Annie huddled within her slicker, chilled, dispirited, hopeless. Ten minutes. Twenty. Now it was utterly dark except for the brief flashes of lightning. She looked ahead. There…across the water, the lights of the island glowed, spelling warmth and safety and home. But not for Chloe. Was she awake, hurt, in pain? Cold, so terribly cold? She’d not been found. Annie was sure of it. Someone would have called them if—

  The cell phone beeped. Annie scrambled to pick it up. Numb fingers fumbled, pressed. “Yes. Hello. Yes?”

  “Annie.” Static crackled, making Henny’s voice wavering and indistinct. “They found her. She’s still alive. The guy who has her is setting course directly to the harbor. An ambulance is waiting to take her to the hospital.”

  Annie beamed, turned thumb’s-up to Max. “Who found her?”

  “That young lawyer. He just did a new will for me. Bob…” Static obliterated part of her sentence.

  “…know him?”

  “Bob Winslow?” It was a cheer. “Henny, that’s wonderful. Bob found her.” She placed the emphasis on his name, not the verb. Annie shouted again, “Bob found her. Henny, it was meant to be. We’re on our way.” The lights of the harbor beckoned. “Be there in a minute.” She clicked off the cell phone, turned to Max. “Bob found her.”

  Max knew his wife. “So it’s special that Bob found her?”

  “Of course it is.” She leaned forward in the seat, wishing they could go faster. “Because he cares. It means everything’s going to be all right.”

  Max didn’t say anything, but he shot her a quick look as he slowed to enter the harbor. The smell of creosote and seawater and coming rain mingled.

  Annie waved her hands. “I know. You think that sounds like Laurel.” Annie decided it might be better not to be too explicit in her comparison. “It’s more than that.” Annie didn’t lay claim to ESP or prescience. However…“You’ll have to read Tony Hillerman’s memoir, Seldom Disappointed. He said every traditional Navajo understands that all things are connected, that every cause has its destined effect. You see, it was meant to be. Out of all of us searching, Bob Winslow found Chloe.” There was a tone of wonder in her voice.

  Max reached over, squeezed her knee through the heavy slicker, and the boat bumped against the dock.

  Twelve

  THE RED LIGHT atop the ambulance whirled. The back doo
r was open and light spilled out onto the dock. The big lights on their metal poles blazed, offering some illumination, but the dark sky and black sea merged, impenetrable and forbidding. The EMTs waited with a gurney near the end of the dock. Billy Cameron stood next to them in grim and determined silence. Some boat owners who’d returned from the search milled about, their voices chittery as birds settling for the night. The water slapped against the pilings, tumbled on the seawall, a harbinger of the coming storm.

  Annie peered out into the darkness, felt the sea spray on her face. “Why aren’t they here yet? How far out do you suppose he was when he found her? Oh, Max, what if no one had found her?”

  “But Bob did. She’ll be all right now.” Max’s deep voice was warm and real in the darkness. She couldn’t see his features clearly. The light here was more a suggestion than a reality. But she didn’t need to be able to see him. Every feature was clear and distinct in her mind and in her heart and would always be. Now and forever. The phrase drifted through her mind like brightly colored beads strung on a golden chain. Maybe this was how it would be for Chloe and Bob. Please God. Let him have found her in time. Annie pulled up the hood of her slicker. She was dry and well protected against the night, but the damp wind off the water was dropping the wind chill into the twenties.

  Annie looked out at the water. “It’s darker than a cave. I hope Bob knows his way. And look at Billy”—her tone was angry—“all ready to pounce, standing there at the very end of the dock so he’ll be the first to see them and be right at the ladder ready to arrest her.”

  But it was Ben Parotti, standing in the wheelhouse of his ferry, who spotted the boat. The whistle of The Miss Jolene suddenly shrieked and shrieked again. Ben darted out on the bridge, pointing out to sea.

  Slowly the form of the motorboat took shape in the blackness, its running lights bright points of cheer. As the motorboat chugged close to the dock, a shout went up. A police cruiser eased out from the shadows and closed in behind the oncoming boat.

  Annie wrapped her arms across her front, the slicker crackling in protest. “I suppose that boat’s to keep Bob from turning around and speeding out of the harbor! What’s Billy thinking about?” But she knew that Billy was going to be damn sure Chloe Martin didn’t escape his grasp. Not now. Possibly not ever.

  “Come on, Max.” She headed for the end of the dock. They stopped a few feet from a flight of steps, close enough to see the motorboat pull up and moor, close enough to see the bundled figure lying motionless in the well behind the front seat, close enough to see Bob Winslow in his shirtsleeves, shaking with cold.

  Annie grabbed Max’s arm. “Look, he doesn’t have on a coat. He used it to cover her. Oh, Max, his face…”

  The tall, angular, too-thin rescuer shook with cold, his face pinched and bluish. As he threw a coil of rope, he shouted, “Have you got hot packs? Hurry. For God’s sake hurry, she’s cold as ice.”

  The EMTs, a husky man with a crew cut and a rangy woman in her forties, hurried down the steps, carrying a stretcher. Bob Winslow had Chloe in his arms and was stepping onto the dock as they arrived. Quickly they rolled her onto the support, covered her, and headed up the steps, the stretcher tilting as they went.

  The stretcher passed within a foot of Annie and Max. Annie felt a lurch within, shocked by a glimpse of fair skin the color of Grecian marble and as lifeless. The visible swath of hair was sodden, so wet the color appeared black. A raised welt disfigured her temple, the wound stark against a purpling bruise. Bob Winslow clung to one side of the stretcher, his long legs stretching to keep up with the lope of the EMTs.

  Billy Cameron blocked the path to the ambulance. “I have a warrant here for the arrest—”

  “Chief”—the crew-cut EMT was brusque—“save it for the hospital. It’s going to be touch and go.”

  A custodian sloshed the wet mop over the side of the big metal bucket. He pushed the stringy tendrils as if they were heavy as a Medusa’s head in stone. Annie’s nose wrinkled. One part ammonia to three parts water? Who knew? The antiseptic smell of the hospital overlay the odor from the food trays stacked in a bin and awaiting pickup. The nurses’ station was a length of hall away. An occasional nurse or nurse’s aide moved near the curved wooden counter. The low mumble of television flowed from nearby rooms with partially open doors. Occasionally visitors walked past.

  Annie paced. Max leaned against the wall opposite room 224. Lou Pirelli sagged wearily on a hard straight chair and avoided Annie’s withering gaze. Finally she stopped directly in front of him. She waited until he reluctantly met her eyes. “Does Billy think Chloe’s going to escape into the night, head wound and all?”

  Lou shoved a hand through his thick tangle of black hair. “Annie, I just work here. I got my orders. She’s under arrest. I’m here to make sure she doesn’t go anyplace. And I got to get official word from the doc. If she’s well enough, she’s supposed to be moved to the jail. You got a beef, take it to the man.”

  “Hey, Annie.” Max pushed away from the wall.

  “Want a Dr Pepper or a Pepsi?”

  “Dr Pepper.” Abruptly she hungered desperately for the bubbly tangy pop, still the most original taste in America. Max ducked into a room two doors down. The jangle of coins in a slot, a bang, another jangle and bang, and he was back with a Dr Pepper for her and orange juice for him.

  Annie looked at his choice. “Canned orange juice tastes metallic. And fruit juice is just another form of sugar.”

  Max nodded equably. “You’re right. As always.” He drank, wrinkled his nose, shrugged, drank some more.

  “No vitamin C in Dr Pepper,” Lou observed. “Max, will you keep watch? Think I’ll get a Pepsi.”

  Annie popped open the top, took a satisfying sip. The sugar and the zing gave her a snap of energy. “It has to be a good sign that they moved her to a room.” There had been some color in Chloe’s face when she was wheeled into room 224 a few minutes earlier. A nurse’s aide had deftly maneuvered the gurney, followed by Dr. Burford and Bob Winslow. Annie had made a valiant effort. “Dr. Burford, how is—” But the door had closed. It remained shut.

  The elevator midway down the hall clacked open. Billy Cameron strode down the hall. He ignored Annie and Max, planted himself in front of the door, looked around, barked, “Lou?”

  Lou hurried from the snack room, Pepsi in hand. “Here, Chief.”

  Billy pointed at room 224. “What’s the word?”

  “Nothing yet. Doc Burford’s in there.” Lou wiped beads of cold from the can of Pepsi. “And that guy that found her.”

  Billy folded his arms. “I don’t know that he’s got any right. What’s he supposed to be? A boyfriend? He’s not next of kin. I don’t much like that. I’ll tell doc to get him out of there.”

  Annie bolted forward, squeezed between Billy and the door to Chloe’s room, stared into stony eyes. “Okay, Max and I are invisible, right? That’s fine. Ignore us. But don’t think you can trample all over Chloe just because she’s unconscious. Her aunt and uncle didn’t even come when I called them. Bob Winslow’s got every right to be there. They’re”—she hesitated, then blurted—“going to get engaged.” Annie was sure of it. She heard the scrape of Max’s shoes behind her, carefully did not glance toward him. “Billy”—there was no more rancor in her voice—“think how Bob feels. He loves her. He thought she might be lost. Forever. He found her—and he thought she might die. Don’t make him leave her.”

  Billy rubbed his face, a face that sagged with fatigue. “She ran away. She’s not running again.” He looked at Lou. “Okay, the guy stays—as long as they leave the door open enough so you can hear. We’ll clear it with the doc when he comes out. But I’m going to be sure she doesn’t climb out a window.”

  The door opened. Dr. Burford, his mane of gray hair untidy, his face stubbled with beard, his white coat stained and hanging open, stepped out. “How come you two are standing here shouting at each other outside a sick woman’s door? A woman whose head throbs l
ike a jungle drum in a B flick.” He pulled the door shut.

  Billy glanced at it. “Doc—”

  “C’mon.” Dr. Burford lumbered toward the snack room. Inside, he poked his hand around the back of the pop machine, fished out a handful of quarters, dropped in two, punched a button, and bent down to get a can of Mountain Dew. He flipped off the cap and took the one oversize easy chair. He rummaged in a pocket of his white coat and pulled out a crumpled cellophane package.

  Billy planted himself in front of the chair. “Doc, what’s the deal?” Annie and Max stood to one side.

  “Hypothermia. Concussion. Laceration, swelling right temple.” He ripped open the MoonPie wrapper, took a huge bite. “Heat packs restored body temperature. Intermittent consciousness—”

  Billy leaned forward. “She said anything?”

  Dr. Burford took another big bite, leaving a smear of chocolate on his chin. “Keeps muttering, ‘Bob, Bob, Bob.’ Not much else.” He lifted the Mountain Dew and chugged a good half.

  Billy jangled the coins in his pocket. “How soon do you expect her to be able to talk?”

  Dr. Burford lifted his stocky shoulders, let them drop. “Tomorrow. Maybe. But it isn’t going to matter.” He finished the soda, shoved the rest of the candy in his mouth, heaved to his feet, mumbled over the gob of candy, “Likely she won’t remember a thing. Possibly not for several days before she was injured. That’s the usual way with head wounds. Short-term memory loss. Anyway, she needs quiet. Keep a guard in the hall if you want to. But she’s not going anywhere.” He moved toward the doorway.

  Billy stepped toward him. “I want that door open.”

  Dr. Burford swallowed, shrugged. “Whatever. But don’t bother her.”

  Annie stepped into his path, looked up. Her eyes implored him. “You’ll keep her for several days.” She made it a statement, clear and strong, a demand.