If they met another vehicle on the narrow track, it would be over for all of them.
There was a second horrendous bang, and the Aston Martin’s tires went off the embankment. Grace wrenched the wheel, and the car regained the road.
They whipped around a curve, the other car falling a few seconds behind, then catching up to her. Grace had a dizzying view of the lake below.
Half-remembered stories of survival started her fumbling for the window lever. Clumsily she cranked the window down an inch or two. Unfortunately, this distraction from the road caused her to misjudge the hairpin turn that came out of nowhere.
The Aston Martin’s right tires went off the pavement, and the car plunged off the road and down the woody hillside.
Shock held Grace in a kind of suspended animation as the car crashed and bounced through brush and tree limbs. Rocks and dirt flew up in the cracked light from her headlamps and rained down on the windshield and roof. Then the bushes turned to reeds and rushes, and Grace saw the inky black bulk of the lake.
Instinctively she braked, jamming her foot down on the pedal, but even if the brakes had still been working, the velocity of the car’s momentum could not be stopped.
The Aston Martin slammed down hard, the black water flying up in a great wave.
The car began to sink.
11
Silver bubbles streamed up in the green-gray water, then the headlights went out.
Icy water spilled into the open window and through the joints of the convertible top. Grace could hear the sickening slop of water as she frantically unrolled the window next to her. Many games of worst-case scenario informed her decision, yet as the lake gushed in, she screamed in mingled fright and panic.
The theory was that the water would enter the car and equalize the pressure between the inside and the outside. That would make it possible to shove open the door or escape through a window. But the car seemed to tilt forward and list sideways as the water flooded in, and Grace was trapped beneath a waterfall.
Her hands went to her seat belt. To her relief, it snapped open. She was free to move out from under the torrent of water, although the car’s cramped interior did not make it easy. She climbed over the gearbox and tried the passenger-side door.
Several tons of water pushed against the door. She gave up and unrolled that window, too. Water surged in.
She could not see, which was the worst part, but Grace could feel the water was already up to her chest.
There was still enough air to breathe. Grace forced herself to calm down and think. She remembered Peter saying once that most people would rather die than think. That wasnot going to happen to her.
If she could not push open the door or swim through the cascading water, she would simply wait till the car filled, then the pressure inside and out would be balanced. It was a simple matter of physics. She refused to let herself think about how far the car had sunk. She refused to think about the fact that many of the lakes were so cold and deep that prehistoric fish still lived in them.
She groped in the frigid water, feeling and flinching from something slimy. At last her fingers closed on the strap of her purse. She jerked it out of the water and pulled it open. Inside she found her pocket flashlight and flicked it on.
The pallid ray of light illumed the car interior awash in a murky tide. Leaks seemed to be springing everywhere. Maybe that was a good thing, or maybe the car would be torn apart and she would be crushed. Better not to think about that.
The water was by then up to Grace’s chin. The torrent of water had stopped, and the Aston Martin seemed to float in a kind of eerie stillness. Except they were not floating, they were diving steadily and swiftly to the bottom.
“Oh God,” Grace prayed between chattering teeth.
She switched out the light, looped her bag over her shoulder as though she were starting out on a walk, and reached for the door handle.
“One, two, three.” She took a deep breath. Her fingers clamped on the handle, and she used her shoulder to push the door open. She had to push hard; even so, she was surprised when it gave way.
Disoriented, she half fell, half groped her way out of the confines of the car and into the water. Instinctively she felt with her foot for the ground, but there was no ground. There was nothing below her but water, and she was falling through it, falling through water so pitch-black and so cold that the air seemed to freeze in her lungs.
Blindly, she began to kick toward the surface.
How far…how far…?
Her lungs burned. She struggled to stay calm, to keep swimming. She hoped she was heading toward the surface, that she had not got so turned around that she was swimming down, deeper.
Her lungs felt as if they were going to explode, her body was screaming for oxygen. Shehad to breathe…
Grace’s head broke the surface. The balmy night air caressed her wet face as she gulped in sweet lungfuls of oxygen. She had made it! Treading water, she continued to suck in deep breaths. She was alive. She had never felt so alive.
She could not have sunk as far as she feared, although it was surely deep enough to drown. The Stygian water around her glittered with points of light. Starlight, she realized, looking upward. She struck out for the shore, quietly kicking beneath the surface, dipping her hands softly through the water.
She was not far from the land. Her eyes raked the tree-studded hillside above, but it was too dark to see if anyone waited there. The road looked empty. No car idled there, headlights searching for her.
No cars at all.
A few strokes brought her into the reeds and floating weeds. She squelched through the mud and dropped down, panting and weak, on the spongy turf.
The smell of wet earth and dank water filled her nostrils. It was wonderful. A mosquito whined in her ear. That was wonderful, too. It was wonderful to be alive. To be unhurt and in one piece.
Someone had tried to run her off the road. Someone had deliberately forced her into the lake.
It made no sense. She had no enemies. Maybe some people found her a little annoying, maybe one or two women were jealous of her relationship with Peter, but actualenemies ?
Who could possibly want to harm her? Memories of the previous year returned. Perhaps someone from Peter’s past?
But that seemed far-fetched, even taking into account the strange turn her life had taken since first setting foot in Great Britain.
It must have something to do with Hayri Kayaci’s death. Someone must think she had seen something in the woods that night. But if she had seen something, she would have told the police; common sense should tell the killer that. If she knew anything, the police already knew it; so what would be the point of eliminating her after the fact?
Unless she knew something she didn’t know she knew. Or…unless her attacker knew for a fact that she hadn’t told what she knew. Because her attacker was Peter.
“Noway,” she said aloud, and the frogs, filling the night with their raucous chorus, fell silent.
Grace shivered. She refused to consider Peter, but looking at the thing objectively, the only person she was protecting by remaining silent was Peter. Peter knew that she had so far told the police nothing. He knew that she was uncomfortable lying. He could probably surmise that the police suspected her of withholding information.
And what? she asked herself angrily. Peter was trying to kill her before she cracked and confirmed for the police what they already suspected? That wasn’t objective thinking, it was plain old ridiculous.
No, if anyone was trying to kill her, it was more likely to be someone who actively disliked her—like Scott Sartyn. He had been on the hillside that night. True, he behaved as though he believed Grace had something to do with Kayaci’s death, but that could be a smoke screen. Grace had plenty of experience with devious adolescents who tried to throw her off the track by accusing her of everything from prejudice to cruel and unusual homework assignments. There was something about Sartyn that roused her suspicions
, something she couldn’t put her finger on.
Then again, just because Sartyn disliked her didn’t automatically mean he was evil.
She closed her eyes, too exhausted to think about it anymore.
Instantly she saw again that glimpse of the car interior flooded with murky water and debris. She thought of Shelley, who had always feared drowning, and who had finally drowned off the coast of Italy.
Finally, she believed she understood Peter’s horror of confined spaces. If she hadn’t gotten out…
The ground was cold and hard. She was soaked through, her wet clothes clinging to her shivering body.
It sank in on her that she was not reacting normally. She should not be lying there thinking about Percy Bysshe Shelley’s last struggles for breath, or what fourteen months in a Turkish prison had done to Peter. She should be trying to get help. She was probably in shock.
She peered at the face on her watch. It was too dark to read the dial.
Grace made a great effort and sat up, rifling through the soggy contents of her purse. She found her cell phone and tried it. It chirped forlornly twice, then nothing.
She gathered herself and pushed up to her feet. Every muscle in her body screeched in protest. Sweat broke out on her forehead, and her teeth began to chatter. So much for being unhurt and in one piece. The initial numbness had worn off, and she felt bruised and battered from head to toe.
She stared up the uneven hillside and nearly sat down again. There was no way she could get herself up that cliff.
But what was the alternative? She couldn’t sit there all night, and it might be all night before anyone found her. And who would be looking for her?
Something crackled in the underbrush, and she caught her breath. Someonemight come looking for her—the person who had driven her off the road.
12
Years afterward, Grace used to dream about climbing that hillside. At the time, it felt like a dream. Her sodden clothes seemed to weigh a ton, her trembling muscles felt like overcooked spaghetti as she scrabbled her way up, grabbing at bushes and jutting roots to keep herself from sliding back down. She climbed and climbed but never seemed to reach the top.
She kept climbing, promising herself a warm bath and a soft bed. Though the evening was mild, she felt chilled to the bone. She promised herself a hot drink and the entire next day in that soft bed. By the time she groped her way over the top of the hillside and crawled onto the paved highway, she had committed to a week in bed and a visit to a masseuse.
The road was empty of everything except a lone sheep, who expressed a woolly surprise at her appearance. Grace picked herself up and started off down the narrow lane, and the sheep followed at a prudent distance, baahing at her every so often.
Perhaps he was the lost sheep that the vicar had spoken of at this morning’s service. Grace bit back a hysterical giggle, and trudged on. And on.
She began to wonder if she was dreaming after all. Perhaps she was lying in her soft bed, and this was merely a strange dream. Nightmare. She had had dreams like this, everyone had. Dreams where you walk and walk up hills and down hills and never seem to get anywhere.
Behind her, the sheep bleated.
She did not remember having a sheep in her dream before, but perhaps she had been counting sheep in her nice soft bed when she fell asleep, and this one had persisted into her sleep.
Theclip clop of his hooves on the road seemed to echo through the night.
Far down the highway, Grace could see headlights coming toward her. She tried to decide whether to flag it down; but in the end, the fear that her attacker might be coming back for her sent her off the side of the road and into the woods.
The sheep followed, still bleating inquiry.
Through the bushes, Grace watched the car zoom by. Absently she patted the sheep, now nibbling at her damp clothes. She realized that she had reached Innisdale Wood, and that the village was only a few miles down the road.
That was the good news. The bad news was that she could not walk any farther. She turned and saw the friendly lights of a farmhouse twinkling through the trees. Mallow Farm, she realized. Just a bit farther…
She dragged on, coming at last to a wooden stile. There, she and her woolly companion parted ways. Grace clambered over the fence and dropped to the ground. The sheep baahed forlornly after her as she waded through the deep meadow grass. She passed deteriorating barns and crumbling stone walls, and the weeds and wildflowers underfoot gave way to patchy grass. She was weaving through an orchard of ancient apple trees when a figure stepped out of the shadows to intercept her.
Grace stood stock-still, speechless at the apparition of Kameko Musashi in black spandex leggings and a white muscle T. Her trim, muscular body glistened with sweat. What struck Grace speechless were the elaborate and amazing tattoos that covered Kameko’s arms and as much of her chest as was visible in the poor light. Red-eyed dragons and poisonous-looking flowers spiraled up her sinewy upper arms and shoulders.
Grace’s exhausted brain tried to place those tattoos.
“Yakuza,” she said faintly.
“Hush.” Kameko Musashi looked swiftly over her shoulder.
What was she doing out here? Chauffeur boot camp? Ninja training exercises? Grace was still trying to work it out when the Illustrated Woman’s hand closed on her arm. “Ms. Horrister, what is the meaning of this?” Her small hard hand felt along Grace’s sleeve, then her tone changed. “You are wet through.”
“Someone ran my car off the road,” Grace said. “I need to call the police.” Her legs began to fold.
What happened after that was a bit fuzzy in Grace’s memory. Somehow Kameko got her into house, gave her a stiff brandy, and summoned the police.
The other servants observed these proceedings with silent suspicion. Seated at the long kitchen table, brandy snifter cradled in both hands, Grace watched them watching her, and foggily wondered what was going on.
Somewhere in the midst of all of that, the Shogun burst into the kitchen. The servants began bowing. Mr. Matsukado waved them off and insisted on taking charge. Despite Kameko’s calm explanation and Grace’s protests, a doctor was called and more brandy was poured. Mr. Matsukado gave a great many orders, contradicted a great many more, and had a brief sharp exchange in Japanese with Kameko.
Grace was whisked upstairs and installed first in a hot shower, then in a scalding hot sunken bath.
By the time she was permitted to dry off, she felt parboiled and more than woozy. She was given a very large silk dressing gown with an embroidered dragon on the back—and another brandy. Thanks to all the alcohol or perhaps the hot bath, she had stopped shaking and felt pleasantly numb.
She sat down on the four-poster bed and checked out the room. The furnishings were probably original, but the windows were all new, and the walls had been freshly plastered and repainted.
For all she knew it might be John Mallow’s bedroom, although thanks to the extensive renovations, it was doubtful John or any of the Mallows would have recognized a single room in their ancestral home.
A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. She called, “Come in.”
Kameko, now modestly garbed in a tailored pantsuit, stepped inside and informed her that the police were waiting downstairs.
It was interesting to Grace that Kameko evinced no interest in Grace’s accident. In her place Grace would have been asking all kinds of questions, but perhaps this reticence was a cultural thing. Or perhaps this was a house where such incidents were a common occurrence. Kameko hadn’t hesitated to call the police, so there could be nothing nefarious in her lack of curiosity.
Kameko escorted her to the drawing room with its red-velvet draperies and Tiffany lamps. Grace was less than thrilled to recognize Detective Inspector Drummond accompanying a constable.
She was sure Drummond was an efficient officer, but something about him put her on edge. She didn’t have the energy to be clever; she was exhausted physically and mentally; and
the brandy was affecting her emotional reflexes. She knew it, but she still couldn’t help the antagonism that crept into her greeting.
“Do all the other policemen have the night off? Or do you work every case?”
“Every case you’re in involved in,” Drummond retorted. He was wearing jeans and a yellow polo shirt, so maybe he had been off duty and had been called in. She was not flattered at the idea.
She sat down, wishing she did not have to face the detective inspector in her dressing gown—worse, a dressing gown that looked like it belonged to a sumo-sized geisha girl. She pulled the tie of the dressing gown tight.
After hinting unsuccessfully that Mr. Matsukado and Miss Musashi should depart, Drummond started off by asking Grace where her car was. That indicated to Grace that either she had not previously been too coherent or everyone’s listening skills left much to be desired. On the whole, she chose to believe everyone else was the problem.
After she had explained yet again the whereabouts of her car, there was a sharp silence.
“Are you saying your car was forced off the road into Swirlbeck?”
“Give you enough time, and you’ll get there eventually,” she told him, and propped her chin on her hand—except she ruined the effect by missing the edge of the table with her elbow so that she did a little drunken lurch forward.
The constable cleared his throat. It was very aggravating, although Drummond couldn’t have looked more poker-faced.
“I see,” he said. “I’m afraid this is the first I’ve heard about your car being forced into the lake.”
“I say,” exclaimed the Shogun, “are we to understand that your car is at the bottom of Lake Swirlbeck?”
“My beautiful little Aston Martin,” Grace agreed, and burst into tears.
The tears caught her by surprise. She mopped her face hastily with the flowing sleeve of the blue dressing gown while the gentlemen exchanged uncomfortable looks. Kameko poured brandy into a snifter and brought it to Grace.
Sonnet of the Sphinx Page 10
