"All I did was look around. I didn't take nothing. Palmer swamped me once, and I wondered how come he could go so fast."
"So, tell me what he's got."
"It's a twenty-six footer with a deep vee-hull and twin 250 Yamis." He saw Jason look at the single motor mounted on their stern, the big four-oh written on its side. It didn't take a genius to know that forty horsepower versus five hundred was no contest. Palmer could blow them out of the water.
"The Coast Guard can chase Palmer," Jason said. "I'm worried about Claire Marshall. If he can leave in thirty minutes, they'll be gone before the cars get there."
"You said we're just going to take a look around." He hadn't signed up for any rescue mission. "If that's not the plan, count me out."
"The plan is to see if he's there." Jason pointed to the sky where the clouds were scattering. "Full moon. So, if Palmer is there, he'll see us coming."
"Not unless he has x-ray vision." Daniel didn't want to brag, but no one saw him if he didn't want them to. "What he'll do is hear us."
"Yeah, but he doesn't know we're on to him."
"Ignorance ain't going to make him deaf."
"Say we get close, turn off the motor and pole in?"
"He'll hear us coming, and he won't hear us leaving. He'll know we're there. He might be hearing us already."
"Slow down a minute. Let's think this through."
Daniel held the boat steady in the water. If they turned around now, it was good with him.
"What if we come in fast," Jason said, "making lots of noise, and then when we get close, start slowing it down, real gradual, so he'll think we're moving away."
"No one's dumb enough to fall for that." Except perhaps this deputy sheriff who was supposed to be smart but obviously didn't know shit about boats.
"Palmer doesn't spend a lot of time on the water, and I noticed your engine's quieter than most."
"It's a four stroke."
"So what can we do to fool him? Come on, Daniel, help me out."
He thought about it. Jason was right about Palmer not being a waterman. He could be conned. "We could do what you said plus we use wet bags to muffle the engine."
"So, I'll get them wet." Jason pulled several burlap bags out from under the deck.
Daniel would never admit it, but now they were underway and making plans, he liked being part of it. Palmer was an asshole, and he felt kind of bad about the way he'd treated Claire Marshall.
* * * *
The buzz of a motor emerged from the drone of insects and frogs. Claire returned to the mouth of the creek, hardly daring to hope, and looked for the source. A black shape sped across the water's silver surface, a small open boat headed straight toward her. The sound of the motor faded, as if the boat was moving away, but it appeared to be coming closer. Was the moonlight playing tricks on her eyes? She swam out into the lake, treaded water and watched.
The boat slowed, its motor died and a man climbed onto the front. He used a long pole to pull the boat through the water. A second man sat in the back, paddling. They reached the marsh and disappeared into a tidal creek. Claire waited for them to reappear, thinking about how to attract their attention without alerting Frank.
"Hey Claire," Frank called. "You hear that boat? Smugglers come up this bayou, bringing drugs in from Mexico. Those guys play rough. You don't want them to find you."
The small boat reappeared just short of the channel that led down to Frank's dock. They must have heard him. She stared, willing them to stay quiet, stay hidden. Whoever they were, they couldn't be more dangerous than Frank Palmer.
"Last chance Claire. I'm not going to hang around all night. Let me know where you are and I'll toss you a life jacket. Tide's coming in, you're going to need it." Frank's words were conciliatory, but his voice vibrated with fury.
She raised one arm out of the water and waved to the men in the boat. One of them lifted something to his eyes. Binoculars? She waved again, and he waved back. She placed her index finger across her lips. Please be quiet. Don't let him hear you.
If that boat came to her, Frank would see it. He wouldn't hesitate to shoot them. But she could go to them, swimming underwater when she crossed the channel. She'd have to fight the incoming tide. She studied the ripples on the water's surface, gauging the speed of the current. A dark form moved even faster. A long head and a sinuous ridge showed above the water. As she watched, another alligator swam into view. Both headed down the channel toward Frank's dock. Blood from the alligator he shot could be attracting them, or maybe it was their feeding ground. Why they were there didn't matter. Swimming across their path would be suicidal.
The man with the pole beckoned. She shook her head and pointed to the alligators.
Daniel had already seen them. "Gators," he said, keeping his voice low, "big ones. We got to get her out of the water."
"Can we reach her without Palmer seeing us?" Jason whispered.
The answer was no, but they couldn't leave her there. "He'll see us, but if we're fast, by the time he's cast off, we'll be where he can't follow."
"Ready when you are." Jason picked up the pole. "I'll haul her in with this."
"Make sure she grabs it on the first try. If that don't happen, we'll be out there backing and turning like a sitting duck." He switched the motor back on and sped across the channel. ""
An alligator veered toward Claire, who was swimming out to meet them. Daniel maneuvered into its path. Jason swung the pole and smacked its snout. The gator turned, and a blow from its massive tail rocked their boat. A bright light blazed out the mouth of the channel, and powerful engines roared into life. Palmer had been ready to go.
"Get her," Daniel yelled. "I've got the gator."
He grabbed the wet burlap bags--now steaming hot--off the engine and threw them at the animal's head. One fell across its eyes. The gator bellowed and dove. Jason was pulling Claire into the boat. As soon as her feet cleared the water, he opened the throttle. They raced toward the mouth of the creek with Palmer's boat bearing down on them.
"He's got a gun," Claire said.
She crouched against the side of the boat. Jason unholstered his revolver and followed her example, while Daniel hunkered down beside the motor, steering blind. They bounced through the shallows and into the mouth of the creek. Behind them, Palmer's boat ground against the bottom. His engines screamed as he reversed into deeper water.
Once they rounded the first bend, Daniel cut off the motor and swung it up out of the water. Their momentum and the incoming tide carried them deeper into the marsh, at times through water so shallow that shells on the bottom reflected the moonlight. He lay on the prow deck, using an oar to keep them off the sandbars and away from the sides. The tall grass hid them, but Palmer wasn't giving up. He patrolled back and forth, coming as close as he could without running aground. His spotlight raked the marsh.
At one point, they were close enough to see him holding the wheel in one hand and a machine gun in the other. Daniel pulled up tight against the near bank. Jason had his gun trained on Palmer but, to Daniel's relief, didn't use it. Disabling Palmer with the first shot would be tricky at this distance, and one shot was all Jason would get before that machine gun came into play.
When they reached the inlet that separated the marsh from the swamp forest, he handed Jason an oar and explained the situation. For twenty feet, they'd be in the open. They'd cross the next time Palmer turned his boat around, when he should be looking where he was going, and hope he didn't see them.
"I'll lie up front and steer. You push off as hard as you can."
Claire picked up the other oar. "I know how to paddle, and I'm stronger than I look."
He gave the signal, and they slid across into a dark sanctuary. A thick tree canopy blocked the moon's light, and hanging vines formed walls on either side of the channel. He grabbed a cypress knee and pulled the boat through an invisible opening. Vines surrounded them. Roots and branches arched overhead. Someone six feet away and looking ri
ght at them wouldn't see them.
He'd spent time here in broad daylight with Wildlife and Fisheries patrolling nearby, and they never had a clue. Palmer's boat was still out there, but they'd made it. He crawled back off the prow, scared stiff now that the chase was over, closed his eyes and thanked Saint Andrew.
"Nice job." Jason pulled out his radio. "If I turn this thing on, will he hear me?"
"Not you talking quiet, but he might hear that thing." He pointed at the radio.
"I'll keep it in broadcast mode." Jason turned it on and spoke softly into the handset. He explained the situation and handed the radio to Claire.
She described the orange painted trees marking the turn off the levee road. "Keep coming past the burned cabin, but don't run into my car. It's stuck in the mud about fifty feet short of the dock." She handed the radio back to Jason.
"We're keeping a low profile; you do the opposite. When you get on top of that old levee, switch on your lights and sirens like the Fourth of July. The sooner Palmer knows you're coming, the better."
Daniel who had been listening warned, "He'll run."
"I'm counting on it." Jason grinned. "Like I said, the Coast Guard can chase him."
"You really weren't looking to take him, were you?"
"Hell, no." The rest of Jason's response was lost in the whoop WHOOP WHOOP of sirens, the sweetest song Daniel had heard in a long time.
CHAPTER 34
Tuesday, October 26, 1993
Murmuring voices woke Claire. She opened her eyes, but didn't recognize the room. She sat up, alarmed. Her suitcase lay open on the floor. A blanket that said "Property of the Lafourche Parish Sheriff's Department" hung over the chair. It all came back. Last night, the police had brought her to one of the big downtown hotels, a safe place where Frank couldn't find her. The voices must belong to other guests in the hall.
Her heart stopped pounding, and she became aware of pain. Muscles ached, knees throbbed, her arms and face itched and smarted at the same time, but the worst was her left thigh. She threw off the covers and took inventory. Scratches crisscrossed her arms, which were bumpy with bug bites, and both knees were scraped, but nothing looked serious except her left thigh. Swollen skin surrounded an oozing cluster of cuts. She poked gingerly and felt fragments of shell embedded in her flesh.
Last night's trip to New Orleans was a blur. Lieutenant Breton drove. He had joked about her keeping him up past his bedtime, but most of the time Mike Robinson had talked to her. She'd huddled in the back seat, wrapped in a blanket. She wanted to explain everything, but she kept dozing off.
They'd wanted her to go to a hospital, but she refused, and so they stopped at her house to pick up clothes and feed Dorian before bringing her here. A house detective met them at a downstairs entrance and promised to keep an eye on her room. She'd taken a shower and fallen into bed. For the first time since Frank's funeral, she hadn't awakened in the throes of a nightmare. Had she been too tired or too frightened? Should she laugh or cry?
The bedside clock read 7:23. Dr. Bennett's office opened at nine. She limped to the bathroom, swallowed two Tylenol, and turned on the shower. At first, the hot water stung, but then it soothed.
Mike Robinson called when she was eating her room service breakfast.
"Has the Coast Guard caught Frank?" she said.
"They found his boat. It burned about fifteen miles out in the Gulf. There were no survivors."
"Did they find his body?"
"They hadn't when I spoke to them, but he's presumed dead."
"He's been presumed dead before." And that time there was a body. Frank was out there somewhere. Fear heightened her senses. The voices in the hall took on an ominous undertone, and she tightened her grip on the receiver.
"I understand how you feel, Claire, but the Coast Guard is certain no one survived. We can talk more about it when you come in."
"After the doctor. I have an appointment at ten-thirty."
It was closer to eleven when Dr. Bennett walked into the examining room and asked what in the world had happened to her. He listened to her story with a mix of astonishment and disapproval.
"Frank Palmer," he said. "Just when you think you've heard everything." He looked at her thigh. "The police should have taken you to an emergency room."
"I wouldn't go. My husband was a doctor. Remember? I know how triage works. I'd have been the last person seen."
"I'll stitch it up, but it's a little late. You're going to have a scar." He gave her a shot to deaden the pain, and dug pieces of oyster shell out of her leg.
"I'm putting you on a broad spectrum antibiotic to ward off whatever bacteria was on those shells." He pointed to the red swelling that surrounded the wound. "Keep a close eye on that. If it gets worse, call me. If you see red streaks coming off it, you need immediate medical attention. Go to an emergency room."
She opened her mouth to protest and he said, "Show them the streaks, and they'll see you right away. Trust me. Over-the-counter medications should take care of everything else. Get yourself some Benadryl lotion for those mosquito bites."
"I look like I have chickenpox."
"The swelling will go down in a day or so. Keep up the Tylenol as needed but no more than the dosage on the label. I don't want to add a heavy-duty painkiller to the sedatives you're already taking." He handed her the prescription. "How are you doing with those panic attacks?"
She told him about the nightmare that disrupted her sleep and intruded upon her waking hours until she wasn't sure what was real. She confessed to taking extra pills, too many.
"You've been taking the Xanax longer than I like," he said. "Let's get you back to the prescribed dosage and then I'm going to switch you to a different anti-anxiety medication."
"I don't want to depend on pills."
"I don't want you to. Start by cutting out the extras. Next week, we'll talk about further reductions. Are you still seeing the therapist?"
"No, but I'm still trying to figure out what triggers my attacks. It has to do with the circumstances of my husband's death, but beyond that... I don't know." She spread her hands, palms up. Maybe the hidden fear would abate without ever being identified. "What if I just stop the meds?"
He shook his head. "It doesn't work that way. Your body becomes accustomed to the drugs. You have to be weaned off slowly or you'll suffer withdrawal symptoms, which I promise you, are both more unpleasant and more dangerous than any panic attack. If you haven't taken a pill this morning, take one now." His final prescription was immediate bed rest and then taking it very easy for several days.
"The police want me to come in and give a statement."
He handed her his telephone. "Tell them you'll be available tomorrow at the earliest. If anyone objects, I'll talk to them."
While she waited for her prescription to be filled, Claire flipped through a magazine. Dr. Bennett wanted her to rest, but she wasn't tired. It was lunchtime, but she wasn't hungry. She ought to call her mother and Felix, tell them what had happened, but she'd already been through it with Dr. Bennett and then with Mike. She didn't have the strength to go through it all again. Not yet. She could go back to the hotel and check out, but she wasn't sure she was ready to spend the night alone in the carriage house.
Going for a long walk was her usual response to this kind of mood, but her thigh hurt with every step. She decided to go home, check on Dorian, change her clothes and see how she felt about being there.
Her cab was a block away from the Clarke's mansion when she heard the THWAP-THWAP-THWAP of a helicopter.
"Something's going on up there," the driver said.
She looked where he pointed. A policeman waved his arms at a TV news truck blocking the Clarke's driveway. Another news truck had parked across the street. A group of people loitered on the sidewalk. Some carried cameras. The reporters were back, with reinforcements.
"Take a right on this street and then pull over." She pretended to look for something on the floor until they'd turned the
corner. When she straightened up, the driver was eyeing her in his rearview.
"You some kind of celebrity?" he said.
"Not me. I'm just an innocent bystander."
"You sure you're not the victim? I thought maybe you'd been in a wreck."
She was an innocent bystander who almost became a victim. Thinking about it made her mad. Mad was better than scared, because it gave her energy to keep moving, and she had things to do--arrange to retrieve her car, make sure work was proceeding on the Laurens house. She gave the driver the address of her office.
CHAPTER 35
Wednesday, October 27, 1993
Mike was waiting at the front desk. "Thank you for coming in, Claire. I'm sure there are places you'd rather be."
"Like home. I stayed at the hotel again last night, but I'm going home today." She tried not to limp as they walked down the hall to his office.
"Superintendent Vernon wants to be there when you give your statement, and Deputy Corlette is on his way." He held her usual chair for her, pulled his chair around the desk and sat down facing her.
"How are you?"
"All things considered, I'm fine." She'd be even better when this meeting was over.
"The Police Department failed to protect you. I don't know if you're going to get an official apology, but please consider this mine. It will be a long time before I forgive myself for letting you leave the restaurant alone."
"How could you have known? Besides you did figure it out. I don't know what would have happened if Jason and Daniel hadn't come after me."
"Did I hear my name?" Jason Corlette strolled into the office. "Morning, Claire, Mike. How's everybody."
"I've been apologizing," Mike said.
"Which is not necessary," Claire said. She turned to Jason. "But I owe you a thank you. You saved my life."
"It was a team effort. Mike sounded the alarm. And don't forget Daniel. I'd have been lost without him--literally."
"From day one, Jason believed you were an innocent bystander," Mike said.
That's what she'd called herself yesterday afternoon, but she'd been thinking it over, and this morning she wasn't so sure. "Maybe some of what happened was my fault."
Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim Page 23
