Ray tried to orient himself. How far was he from the shore? If he surfaced the shooter would know he was still alive. It would be like shooting ducks in a…
How far was he from the shore? Holding onto the cockpit’s sides, he extended down and felt for the lake bottom, touching sand with his left foot. He guessed he was inside the second sand bar, less than fifty yards from the shore. Ray pulled his legs close to his chest to conserve body heat and let the boat drift in the wind, bringing his nose and mouth into the cockpit to breathe. He assumed that the boat would weathercock, the bow turning into the westerly wind. Carefully maneuvering, Ray moved so he was facing the stern—the part of the kayak that would drift toward the shore.
What if the shooter was waiting? Ray knew he was becoming hypothermic, and because of the wound, probably unable to support his weight. Using his teeth, he worked the neoprene glove off his right hand, unzipped a pocket in his life vest, and removed a rescue knife. He pushed the serrated blade open with his thumb. He checked the water’s depth again, less than four feet. Ray dropped his legs to the bottom and slowly and carefully positioned the boat parallel to the shore.
He saw the beam of the flashlight reflecting off the sandy bottom as someone waded toward the boat. He pulled his legs close, hoping they would look like his upper torso was hanging lifeless in the capsized kayak.
Ray held the knife at the ready. His timing had to be perfect. He would have only one chance at the shooter.
40
Ray’s memories of what happened next had a dreamlike quality: he lunged toward the light, driving his knife into the dark figure. He thrust a second time, ripping bone and flesh with the serrated blade. He heard a painful scream and then felt a powerful force pushing him backwards—the flashlight dropping into the water; its beam dimming, disappearing into blackness. Two loud explosions, the figure moving away, back onto the shore. And then barking, and a bigger flashlight, and someone was dragging him by a shoulder strap. He was crawling on the sand, and the world was slipping away. And then it came back. He was covered with blankets, and Sue was at his side, asking about the shooting. He told her about the knife, said he had wounded someone. And then the world went black again. He was aware of sounds, voices, the slapping of helicopter blades, the scream of the jet engine. When he opened his eyes again he was in a treatment room, the green worm of his heartbeat ambling along on a monitor, IV lines attached to his left arm, an oxygen mask covering his face. One of the nurses, a tall, serious looking man in dull-blue scrubs, noticed his eyes were open.
“How you doing, buddy?” he asked. “Sorry we had to cut up your wet suit. Needed to get a better look at that wound. As soon as you’re warmed up a bit, we’re sending you to surgery. By the time you wake up in the morning, we’ll have you all patched together.” Ray watched him for a few more minutes and slid back into a dream.
He woke with a start, the late autumn sun flooding into the room, a different room, flowers—yellow mums—on the window sill. A uniformed officer near the door. Then the voice of Saul Feldman, his internist, “I thought you were an early riser.”
Ray tried to speak, his throat sore, his voice ragged. “What… ?
“Everything is under control,” offered Feldman. “I talked to the orthopedist, he’s a damn a good surgeon. Everything went well. A very positive prognosis; you’ll make a good recovery. You were lucky, Ray. It could have been a lot worse.” He moved closer to the bed and dropped his voice to a less professional tone. “When you came in for your flu shot, what was that, two weeks ago, didn’t we discuss the danger of late-season kayaking?”
Ray struggled for a retort, but his head throbbed from the post-operative morphine hangover. Sue entered the room and stood at the end of the bed. “Did you lose a knife?” she asked, dangling an evidence bag in her left hand.
“I’m half dead and everyone’s a comedian,”Ray said hoarsely. He focused on the knife. “I hope you found the person I planted it in.”
“No such luck,” Sue said. “Not yet. But we did find a bloody glove. He must have dropped it when he was getting in his car.”
“Anything else?”
“Brass. We found eight 223-caliber casings.”
“Interesting, think I only counted four shots. Where?”
“At the top of the dune. Right above the original crime scene.”
“Ten minutes, Ms. Lawrence,” said Feldman. “And I’ll be back to check,” he said as he walked toward the hall.
“Could you recognize him, the shooter?”
“I didn’t really see him. I just lunged from under the boat toward the light. The fact that I apparently wounded him was just luck. What else did you find?
“The flashlight and your kayak.”
“My boat, how bad?”
“You won’t be happy.”
“Damn,” he was silent for a long moment. “Prints?”
“Some on the brass and some on the flashlight and the batteries. I’ve sent them for analysis.”
“Hospitals?”
“Yes, we’ve alerted all the hospitals and walk-in clinics in the region to watch for anyone with a knife wound. So far there’s been no response. We’re getting the blood type and the DNA from the glove.”
“At the end I heard shots. Sounded like a cannon.”
“Your friend Nora.”
“Nora?”
“You’re lucky she had stopped home to pick up some things. She heard the rifle shots and called 911. Dispatch told her to lock the doors and stay in the cottage until an officer arrived. When she saw the flashlight on the beach, she grabbed her shotgun and came down to the beach to investigate. She said she wasn’t really aiming for your attacker; she was just trying to scare him away.”
“She’s lucky that old gun didn’t blow up,” said Ray. “I bet she’s got a bruised shoulder.” He lay there and tried to visualize Nora firing the shotgun. Then he asked, “Was it Ashleigh’s killer?”
“Had to be. He must have been tailing you, waiting for an opportunity to take you out.”
“But why? It makes no sense.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, here’s my speculation. You’re the man.You’re the one who talks to the cameras. He sits at home and sees you on the news. He’s personalized this; it’s a battle between the two of you. He thinks we’re getting close.”
“Sue, that’s not… ”
“Not what? Not logical, at least not logical to you? But I bet it makes perfect sense to the shooter. And if he’d only been a better shot… ”
“Better shot!” Ray motioned toward his leg. “He was good enough.”
Feldman appeared at the door. “That’s it for a while. Let’s give him some rest.”
“But,” protested Ray.
“No buts. For you, visiting hours are over.”
She held his hand a brief moment. “I’ll be back in a while. There’s an armed officer at the door. Don’t try to wander off. He’s been instructed to shoot first, ask questions later.”
Ray watched her leave. He stared at the ceiling tiles a long time. Who thinks I’m getting too close? Whoever it is has got a nasty knife wound.
Before he drifted off again, he remembered that he had never found Orion.
41
“I think it’s a goddamn conspiracy, not that I mind getting out of here,” said Ray in a grumbling tone as he pushed his way up from a wheelchair, grabbing onto the car door, and hopping on his good leg so he could back onto the car seat. “What’s that, the conspiracy?” asked Sue, holding onto the wheelchair with her left hand while steadying the car door.
“The food. One of the nurses told me he’s heard that it’s hospital policy to make the food almost intolerable to encourage people to leave as soon as they can.”
Once he was seated, she pulled his seatbelt out for him and closed the door. She slid into the driver’s seat and said, “I thought Marc and Lisa were bringing you dinner last night?”
“They were, they did—a lovely lamb dish, but they
were late. And while I was waiting I was served a plate of tuna casserole,” Ray repeated it a second time with heightened disdain in his voice. “Tuna casserole, made the old-fashioned way with cream of mushroom soup. The dish that destroyed the palates of millions of Americans and… ”
“How did you know about the mushroom soup? Do you have a spy in the kitchen?”
“You can tell. It has a certain congealed looked to it. I don’t think there’s any other way to get that texture and consistency.”
“So, why did you eat it?” she asked, as she turned right out of the hospital drive. Cars lined both sides of the narrow street, and she had to carefully navigate between the parked cars and the oncoming traffic.
“I didn’t, I just looked at it. That was enough.” Ray paused. “They even had faded green beans on the side, and a wedge of iceberg salad with Thousand Island dressing.”
“Sounds real retro,” Sue said, waiting to make a left turn. “You know what?”
“What?”
“You’re real grumpy. It’s not like you. Must be the drugs.”
Ray looked over at her, “Your hair, I don’t remember it being that red.”
“Nice recovery. Grumpy, but still observant.” She ruffled her hair with her right hand. “I needed a little change.”
“Looks good, I like it.”
“I hear you did some hospital rounds this morning.”
“Yes,” he explained. “With my bodyguard following along, one of the young nurses pushed my wheelchair. I thought I’d look around and see if they had admitted anyone with knife wounds.”
“And?” Sue baited him.
“Nothing.”
“And that’s what we’ve heard from all the area hospitals and clinics. I’ve visited Leiston School to see if anyone is wearing a sling or has gone missing. Even had a chat with Alan Quertermous. He was most solicitous of your health and sends you his best regards.”
“I’ll bet,” said Ray.
Her tone changed. “How about Jason?”
“I guess he’s out of danger. But he’s still surrounded by tubes and wires.”
“How is he psychologically?” she asked.
“Jason has never shown much affect, so it’s hard to tell, but he seems depressed. He’s learned firsthand the dangers of playing with fire. So to speak.”
“Yes,” Sue agreed. “And Arnie?”
“There’s still no one home. One of the doctors told me he was less than optimistic about Arnie’s recovery.”
They rode in silence for several miles, Ray looking out at the bay. Finally he asked, “Do we have the Medford autopsy yet?”
Sue looked across the car and gave Ray a quick smile before her eyes returned to the road. “I was wondering how long it would take you to get back on task.”
“Well?”
“I have everything organized for you. After we get you settled at home, I’ll go through it with you.”
“Just give me a summary,” said Ray, a note of irritation in his voice.
“Grump, grump. It’s the drugs, isn’t it?”
Ray moved in the seat trying to get comfortable. “They do mess with my head. The few times I’ve had to use them.” He paused, “I tried to explain it to Saul, and he thought I was asking for antidepressants. I finally got him to understand what I was trying to tell him. He said some people react that way to opiates. He said I needed to be patient, it would take a number of days to wash all of them from my system.”
“And maybe you’re just depressed. Getting shot is not an uplifting experience.” There was a long silence as they drove north on the highway toward Cedar Bay, two lanes of blacktop that followed the Lake Michigan shoreline.
“I know I’m down,” Sue finally offered. “And I didn’t catch any lead.”
“What are you upset about?”
“Most of the same things you are. We’re not getting any closure on this case.” She took several deep breaths. “I’ve had trouble keeping my distance. And it’s real easy for me to relate to Ashleigh.” She stopped and waited for a school bus in the opposing lane. Three elementary-age children, two girls and a smaller boy, each lugging a backpack, crossed in front of them, heading for a cottage perched on a small outcropping of land near the water.
“Maybe that’s what I should be doing,” she said, motioning toward the children.
“Driving a school bus?” asked Ray in a teasing tone.
“You know what I’m talking about. There are other ways to try to help build a better world than just spending your time looking for the bad guys. I was also thinking about going back to graduate school.”
“In what?”
“I don’t know. I’m just noodling around with possibilities. Like I used to play flute in the high school orchestra. I was very good, and it made me happy. And I took a lot of art courses in college before I became practical and settled on criminal justice. Maybe I could become an art or music teacher.” There was another long pause. “Or maybe I could meet a nice guy and start a family.”
“There’s always that possibility.”
“But I’m not finding many here. I’ve already scouted out the possibilities around Cedar Bay.” She looked over at Ray. “Too bad you’re old enough to be my father.”
“Why’s that?”
“You have most of the things I look for in a man.”
Ray chuckled, “I can give you the names of women who would be more than happy to enumerate on my many flaws.”
“You probably met the wrong women.” Sue said with some tenderness. “How about Sarah James? She’s sort of a babe. Have you gone out with her?”
“No.”
“Think you might?” she asked, bringing the car to a complete stop, waiting for another school bus to make a left turn.
Ray looked across the bay. There were still a few flashes of color on Old Mission Peninsula. Occasional columns of sunshine shot through the heavy gray overcast, illuminating areas of water and land like a spotlight panning across the horizon.
“Perhaps.”
“I saw her at the hospital. Did she visit you more than once?
“Yes.”
“We’ve never considered her as a possible suspect, have we?”
“It did cross my mind.” He felt a wave of discomfort run through his frame. “What would be her motive?”
“Jealousy, or… ”
“Seems like you’re making a long reach here.”
“I am. I’ve been going over and over the possibilities the last several days, trying to see if there is anything we’ve missed.”
“And Sarah?”
“We never clearly established her whereabouts on the night of Ashleigh’s death, and I just wasn’t sure that we’d looked at her as a possible suspect. You were the one who had most of the contact with her.”
“And you were wondering, to use your language, if the ‘babe’ factor protected her from close scrutiny?”
“It was just a thought,” responded Sue.
“Well, then I think you should be the one who takes a second look at Sarah James,” Ray said. “So, tell me about the Janet Medford postmortem.”
“It’s just a preliminary report, some of the more exotic toxicology will take a few weeks.”
“Give me a summary,” asked Ray.
“She died of smoke inhalation. Her blood alcohol was over 0.20—something like 0.23 or 0.24. As I’m sure you remember too vividly, the body was in less than perfect shape, but there was no evidence of trauma. I called the pathologist after I got the report. I had a couple of things I needed clarified. He had some interesting observations that I hadn’t quite picked up on in his more clinical statements.”
“Like?”
“He said that years of heavy drinking and smoking had taken their toll. Her lungs were severely damaged. And if she hadn’t died of smoke inhalation, it seems she would have eventually suffocated from emphysema. And he said that she had a badly diseased heart.”
“I wonder if she knew?”
> “I was curious about that,” said Sue. “Found out she was a patient at the Cedar Bay Clinic, had a conversation with Cornelia Johnson, her internist. Johnson said she last saw Medford during the summer for a routine physical. They had discussed lifestyle issues many times, but she could tell Medford was not about to change her ways.”
“So, her visit was just routine or did Johnson give her any bad news?”
“No, just the usual report, ‘If you don’t stop doing what you’re doing you’re going to an early grave.’”
“How about the arson investigator, Ogden?” Ray asked.
“One interesting finding, Ogden found some traces of Coleman fuel in Ashleigh’s laundry room. He thinks it was just part of her camping supplies and not the initial cause of the fire. It just exploded in the course of the blaze. He said that the source of the fire would be listed as undetermined. Interesting word, isn’t it? He went on to say that he thinks it started with a grease fire. She left a pan on the stove, wandered away, fell asleep or passed out.”
“So, it might have been an accident?” Ray paused. “Or maybe she just wanted to leave the world rather than suffer alone with a bad heart and broken-down lungs?”
“Maybe,” said Sue. “One more thing. You asked me about two former students, Jay Hanson and Denton Freeler.”
“Oh, yes,” responded Ray. “I’d almost forgotten about them.”
“Jay Hanson is studying in Italy this year, according to his mother. He left in August. And Denton Freeler, well, I’ve had no luck running down his parents. Remember, Helen Warrington said that his death had been reported to the Leiston School alumni office? But I can’t find any record of his passing. But, if they are still living abroad, I guess he could have died abroad. Anyway, neither seems to have ever had any problems with the police. My full notes are in a folder with a filename Hanson/Freeler.”
Ray Elkins mystery - 02 - Color Tour Page 21
