Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) (28 page)

Maybe
I could dog paddle faster.

Kain’s motor caught. Our game of hide and seek had begun. I
veered from the main creek into an unfamiliar feeder rivulet. I needed less
than a foot of draft. I prayed it was too shallow for his motor to clear.

I paddled to a Y, one of dozens of idiosyncratic dips in the
meandering creek, and set off down the narrowest passageway. Where would it
lead? Moonlight glittered on the waves. Still it was difficult to pick out
landmarks. At this tide, the grass towered three feet above my head. Good for
camouflage, not for navigating. I brushed against the decaying marsh grass. It
felt surprisingly soft. In two months, the brown vegetation would vanish; a
sheen of chartreuse would signal the marsh’s rebirth. If I lived to see it.

The chug of the motorboat engine sounded close, too close.
My feeder creek ran right back to the main waterway.
Damn.
Only a small
strip of marsh separated me from Kain. To my dismay, I realized this portion of
the channel, though narrow, was plenty deep for a skiff.

I could track Kain’s progress as he poked along,
methodically probing hidden nooks and crannies. His searchlight beam projected
a tiny halo of light above the marsh.

How long would he stay with the main creek? With the paddle
I pushed deeper into a little cove of grass. The fecund, slightly sweet smell
of rotting marsh made me queasy. Inches away the pluff mud teemed with tiny
crabs waving pincers twice the size of their bodies. On the opposite bank a
pile of oyster shells gleamed. If I abandoned the kayak here, I’d sink in mud
or cut my feet to ribbons on razor-sharp shells.

I fumbled with my paddle to angle my wrists and check the
time. Ten-thirty.
Less than two hours to reach Braden. Get moving.
Unfortunately,
Kain and his gun stood between me and civilization…phones…Braden. While
checking the time, I inadvertently glanced at my GPS first.

Hmm
. I had a vague notion of my whereabouts within
Beach West’s undeveloped heart. My mind flashed on the image of a structure,
one Kain couldn’t possibly know. One he was unlikely to see at night. Long before
Dear became a nature preserve, it served as a poacher’s paradise, and ambitious
locals built a hunter’s blind in the top of a huge oak. A place to drink beer
and shoot wild turkey and alligators.

Strips of wood nailed to the oak’s trunk formed a ladder.
The blind overlooked the island’s alligator spa—the deep, dark pool fed by
artesian hot springs. The structure was in disrepair. Rotting floorboards
punctured by gaping holes. But it was the best place I could think of to safely
hide from his searchlight. He’d be unlikely to look up.

It took a little handcuff maneuvering to work the GPS
buttons, but in a couple of minutes I was set. I’d already marked the alligator
spa as a geocaching waypoint. Now I set it as my destination. A row of glowing
digital breadcrumbs flickered on as a reward. The blinking ants marched
steadily, showing the shortest route.

My mind was working again, logic reasserting itself over
primitive fear. It wasn’t enough to hide. I had to come up with a plan. If I
didn’t, Braden was dead. I prayed Kain hadn’t lied about when the bomb would go
off.

By the time I reached the first dry hillock, the outline of
a scheme presented itself. Crazy, risky, insane—it was all I had.

I abandoned the kayak on the sandy rise. I ran fifty yards
or so, then yelled. I tried for a blood-curdling scream—as if I’d been injured
in a fall. Something to get Kain salivating.

The subtropical forest was dense, dark and confusing. I
checked my GPS regularly to see which way the green digital ants headed. I
picked up a fallen tree branch to use as a probe and poked the ground ahead
like an Army grunt testing for landmines. The blind was close by, but I needed
to circumnavigate the neighboring lagoon. I wasn’t anxious to take a dip with
the alligators.

The lagoon proved easy to spot. White vapor rose steadily
from its oily black surface. The tall oak loomed above the water, its
silhouette quite distinctive. Light scissored the woods above my discarded
kayak.
Good.
Kain was following. I ran to the base of the tree and swore.
The first ladder rung had rotted to little more than splinters. Were more steps
missing?

I grabbed hold of a rung well above my head. My feet
scrabbled against the trunk for purchase. After gaining a queasy purchase, I
maneuvered for the next notch. Sweat ran into my eyes. Thirst made me dizzy.
While I’d been free of my gag for half an hour, it felt as if it was still in
place, siphoning off saliva faster than a dentist’s suction tube.

I climbed faster using my elbows for leverage. All of the
higher rungs felt sturdy. My hand touched the blind’s decaying floor just as
Kain’s flashlight speared me in its beam.
Pure rotten luck
. I’d planned
to drop on him, a banshee descending out of the blue. Surprise was no longer an
ally.

Kain’s discovery prompted a bellow of rage and euphoria. The
hunter had run his quarry to ground. I pulled myself through the blind’s entry
and lay panting on the rough boards. The board nearest my hands teetered when I
moved. The nails that once held it to the joist had popped. Only the imbedded
heads kept the rusted protrusions in place.
Careful.

Kain closed to within a hundred yards. I stared at the
ground below, where an audience gathered for the coming confrontation. Beady
red eyes glowed in the dark. At least six alligators had congregated at the
edge of the hot lagoon.

Hell and damnation.

I hid myself as best I could in the foliage of the live
oak—a tree that never loses its leaves. My best wasn’t good enough.

“Oh, Marley, you do like to play games. Unfortunately for
you, I have the trump card.” He held his pistol high in the moonlight. “How
many shots will I need to wound you? Want to wager?”

The first shot gouged a branch inches from my shoulder.
Splinters of bark exploded around me. The second bullet buried itself in thick
wood just shy of my torso.

“I’m getting closer,” Kain crooned. “Bet I wing you with
shot number three.”

I didn’t want to take that bet. I seized the loose,
nail-studded board at my feet. It would have to do. I tightened my grip on my
makeshift club and let out a war whoop. A second later I dropped onto Kain. His
body cushioned my fall. He screamed and staggered to his feet. The collision
had ripped the gun from his grasp.

Now I had the only weapon.
Batter up.
The floorboard
with its rusty nails found its mark, and Kain fell to the ground, shrieking.
Only this time he rolled down the incline, headed directly to the waiting
alligators.

An animal roar filled the air, followed by an unearthly
scream. “Help me. God, help me,” Kain pleaded. Was he talking to me or God?

Was it a trap? What would happen if I went closer to the
lagoon? Had he recovered his gun?

I thought of Braden. The deadline. I turned my back on his
screams and ran. I checked my GPS. The logger’s lane entered nearby. I
sprinted, ignoring the jarring pain in my twisted angle. Yet every woodland
rustle prompted a backward glance. I’d watched too many flicks where the
heroine assumes the villain’s down only to have him materialize with an axe.

Kain didn’t materialize.

At eleven p.m., I streaked out of the woods and almost
collided with a security patrol car. I pounded on the window with my fists. For
a moment, I feared Chip would shoot before he recognized me. My lip was
swollen and bleeding. My wet hair matted to my skull. Mud caked my ripped
clothes. Panic drove my screams toward a glass-shattering pitch.

“There’s a bomb. He locked Braden in a house with a bomb.”

Chip radioed for help as we sped to Blue Crab Point. The
next few minutes vanished in a blur. Chip beat me to the villa’s door and raced
up the stairs. I heard Braden’s voice before I saw him. “Where’s Marley? Kain
took her,” he yelled. “You have to find her.”

“Don’t worry. I’m here.” I panted as I fell into the room.
“Oh, thank God. You’re okay.”

With Chip’s help, Braden shed the last of his ropes, and we
held each other. I cried as Braden muttered, “Thank God. Thank God.”

After a minute, Chip cleared his throat. “Folks, didn’t you
say that’s a bomb?” He pointed at Kain’s handiwork. “What in blazes do we do?”

“Get the hell out of here,” I answered. “Do either of you
know squat about bombs? I don’t. Try to disarm it and we may set it off. This
place could use a little redecorating.”

The chief’s booming voice startled me. “Damn straight. Let’s
go. Nothing here worth risking lives. We may not know about bombs on Dear, but
we know plenty about evacuations.”

I didn’t see the explosion. But the firemen, who waited half
a mile away, weren’t impressed. They doused the flames inside an hour. Of
course, the villa was toast.

The chief, Braden and I had unfinished business, finding
Kain.

The alligators did not eat him. Even they had better taste.
But one of them, startled or aggravated by his uninvited drop in, had chomped
through an artery in Kain’s leg.

Occasionally I wondered what Kain’s last thoughts were as he
bled out. I hoped he died cursing me.

When we found his body, my wicked mind thought of a fitting
epitaph:
Kain wasn’t Abel.

When did I last attend an Easter sunrise service? I couldn’t
remember. This year it felt essential. Braden groused about setting the alarm,
but sensed the celebration’s importance. As we stood on a sandy rise, he leaned
down to whisper in my ear. “You warm enough? Want my jacket?”

An ocean breeze rustled the dune grasses in the damp
pre-dawn. The air held a chill. “I’m fine.” I wrapped my arm around his waist
and burrowed into his sweet warmth.

Two weeks had passed since Kain bled to death.

Thank God, the killer told me of his decision to spare
Sharlana. Before carting Kain’s body away, the coroner emptied his pockets and
found a slip of paper with a Miami address. When police searched the address,
they found Sharlana. A pimp was softening her up with drugs before putting her
on the street. Doctors thought she’d make a full recovery.

The rescued flash drive proved a bonanza. Loaded with data
about Kain’s criminal enterprise, it sparked dozens of arrests up and down the
East Coast. It would be years before Sheriff Conroy collected all the favors
law enforcement officers now owed him. The only puzzle was why Kain had entrusted
the data to Hugh. Was Hugh acting as a courier, taking the data to another
lieutenant? Or was it insurance—a way to keep potential traitors in line? No
one knew. Hugh never came out of his coma before he died.

Janie landed on her feet. Grace Cuthbert’s lawyer, who
headed the creditor delegation rushing to Dear’s rescue, named her Managing
Director. Now Janie had her chance to be the head cheese.

Braden ran his hands up and down my arms to keep me warm.
His touch thrilled me. I couldn’t wait for our vacation to begin. We both had a
week off, starting tomorrow. We planned to explore the Lowcountry in style.
Carriage rides through Beaufort’s historic neighborhoods. A boat cruise to Fort
Sumter. A day poking around sprawling Middleton Place. Candlelight dinners in Savannah
and Charleston. Lots of time in bed.

I felt happy. We’d barely begun to share our pasts—bedtime
stories told a little at a time. The future? Who knew? We agreed it would take
care of itself.

But, ah, the present was magic. Our deep affection eroded
the guilt we’d each stockpiled. I helped Braden realize he shouldn’t be bullied
by his ex-wife’s blame-game. He’d come to a decision. He would not let regret
strip his sons of their birthright: a father’s love.

In turn, Braden urged me toward my own absolution. My
husband was dead. That didn’t make my desire wrong. With words and touches, we
reassured each other: we were worthy of love. I closed my eyes to say a little
prayer.

Braden nudged me. “Hey you’re not going to sleep, are you?”

“No, I just remembered the Gullah word for dawn. Do you know
it?”

“No, but I’m sure you’ll enlighten me.”

“It’s
dayclean
,” I said. “A wonderful image. A fresh
start.”

Bright reds and oranges danced in the clouds as the sun
inched over the horizon. The choir began to sing. It would be a beautiful day
at the beach.

***

Don’t miss Marley’s next
adventure, NO WAKE
ZONE
. The first chapter follows.

“Miss, Miss—are the crab puffs all gone?”

I tightened my grip on the tray, wishing I held my Glock
instead of a platter of tricked-out wieners. At the rate these folks snarfed
hors d’oeuvres and champagne, they’d empty the galley before the midpoint in
our afternoon lake cruise.

“I’ll check, sir.”

While answering the portly merrymaker, I spotted my cousin
Ross in his crisp captain whites. His blue eyes twinkled, and his moustache
quivered like a frightened chinchilla. What nerve. I’d tell him where to stuff
his chuckle—and my frilly apron—the minute we docked.

Ross grinned. He’d shanghaied a junior helmsman for backup
so he could kibitz now and again with the well-heeled guests. “Having fun,
Marley?” he whispered as he slid by me.

He tossed off a two-finger salute and headed back to the
wheelhouse. While Ross only pilots the Queen on special outings, today qualified.
Jake Olsen, a tycoon the locals claim as one of their own, had chartered the
double-decker excursion boat for a post-wedding reception.

When a waiter called in sick at the last minute, I agreed to
fill in, never dreaming Olsen’s newest wife—number three—would turn out to be
Darlene Sherbert, an old college friend.

As I trotted down the metal stairs to restock my tray a blur
of red and black snagged my attention. Windmilling arms. Splayed legs. A body
thudded against the lower deck railing a few feet to my left and ricocheted. My
mind flashed on the image of a limp rag doll. A geyser sprayed me with cold
rain as the body tumbled into the lake.

Sweet Jesus. How long would it take Ross to stop the Queen?

Please, God. Not another drowning. Could I save him?

I threw down my tray, toed off my deck shoes, and clambered
over the railing. The water rushed by three feet below. I pushed hard with my
feet for distance and dove.

Knifing into what felt like an ice bath, I gasped. Big
mistake. Water flooded my throat. I fought to the surface, and coughed up some
of the inhaled water. Tremors shook my body. Screams from the Queen’s
passengers blended with the seagulls’ raucous cries.

I scanned the churning lake for a head breaking the surface,
for a body, for anything human. Sunlight sparkling on the water blinded me. Was
it a man or woman? The Queen’s wake flung me upward, and I spotted the victim a
few yards away. The floater vanished as I descended into the wave’s trough.
Head down, I swam toward the spot where a flash of red clothing last appeared.

When my hand touched skin, I stopped mid-crawl and raised my
head. The Queen’s wake made it tough to tread water. Had I gotten turned
around? No. There he was. The man floated face down and bobbled like a cork.
Well-toned arms stretched wide. A red silk shirt clung to his back, as
revealing as plastic wrap. A swell flung him against me, and I seized a thick
mat of white hair. My desperate yank flipped the body.

Heaven almighty. Jake Olsen.

Empty eyes told me I was too late. The man’s eyelids drooped
at half-mast as though he could no longer resist sleep. A thin rim of faded
china blue circled dilated pupils—black, lifeless holes. Disconcertingly the
eyes had pin-balled in opposite directions. It didn’t matter. Jake’s vision of
this world was gone.

With an arm tucked across his chest, I cradled his head to
keep his lips above water. Lifesaving 101. Though I hadn’t been a lifeguard for
thirty-plus years, it’s something you don’t forget.

Wasted effort. Jake wouldn’t be organizing any more cruises
or have a chance to introduce wife number four.

My scissor kicks and feeble one-armed sidestroke kept us
afloat. I pivoted to keep an eye on the Queen. A low growl escaped the engines.
How long would it take Ross to slow and make the seventy-five-ton vessel heel?

A lifeline buoy shot across the waves and skipped over the
surface just out of reach. I kicked harder. Though I wore only thin slacks, a
blouse and that damnable apron, the waterlogged apparel felt like chain mail. A
desperate lunge brought the nautical ring within inches. Once my fingers
snagged the rope netting, I looped my free arm through the buoy.

Now I simply needed to hang on and prop up Jake’s head until
help arrived. The frantic crew lowered a lifeboat. The dinghy swayed several
feet above the lake’s surface before it plopped down with a theatrical splash.
After what seemed an hour, but was more likely two minutes, the lifeboat pulled
alongside.

“We’ll take him, Marley,” shouted Carlos, a carnival
roustabout Ross befriended years before.

“Are you okay?” he asked as he hoisted the body. “We’ll pull
you in next.”

“I’m fine.” My teeth clattered like castanets. I clung to
the gunnels while Carlos and another crewman checked Jake’s pulse and attempted
to revive him. No dice. Carlos shook his head, then grabbed me under the
armpits and hefted my body like a sack of potatoes.

Panting. I collapsed. As the rescuers rowed, I managed a
final look at Jake’s haunting visage before shifting my gaze to the idling
Queen. A knot of nattily attired partygoers crowded the lower railing, while a
parallel flock of wealthy gawkers elbowed each other for good balcony seats.
Cell phones bristled like antlers among the herd.

Who are they calling—their brokers?

Then the realization hit—they were using the phones as cameras.
I turned away. But not before I spotted my friend Darlene. Standing alone. Arms
crossed as she hugged herself.

My God. Her marriage had lasted one whole week. A sob caught
in my throat. I knew too well how it felt to lose a husband. At least, I’d had
sixteen years with Jeff.

I’m so sorry, Darlene.

As soon as the crew hoisted my soggy butt aboard the Queen,
May claimed jurisdiction.

“You’re a damned fool.” May shook her head as she tightened
the blanket around my quivering body. “Only an idiot would do a swan dive off
the Queen. What if you’d hit the side of the boat or a log? We’d have two
corpses instead of one. Damned fool.”

My seventy-nine-year-old aunt talked tough, but after
decades on the receiving end, I knew her fierce bark to be colorful bluff. The
tremble in her fingers and warble in her voice said fear for my safety, not
pique over my idiocy, prompted her latest tirade.

She loved me like a daughter. When Mom was alive, May
offered to swap one of her three sons for my sister or me. That was Irish
bluster. May Carr would do anything for her “boys”—now men creeping up on
Social Security eligibility.

May shepherded me to the wheelhouse, away from the morbid
circus surrounding Jake. I let my aunt fuss. Arguing took too much energy, though
I didn’t feel especially traumatized. Sitting around in wet clothes seemed a
cakewalk compared to all too many of my experiences in the Army.

Though I’d retired from the military, I still worked, sort
of. My part-time gig as a security officer let me travel when the spirit moved
me. This tenth day of June, the spirit—an impressive one in the form of Aunt
May—had moved me to Iowa and the haunts of my youth to help arrange a combo
birthday party/family reunion. May took the opportunity to observe that I’d had
ample time to recuperate from my tangle with Dear Island’s psycho killer and my
backside would spread to the size of Alaska, if I didn’t get off it and do
something.

When asked so sweetly, how could I refuse?

I glanced at my aunt. White hair as wispy as cotton candy
and deep crinkles around her blue eyes reminded me she’d turn eighty in two
weeks. That fact dismayed me as much as it amused her. A two-time veteran of
open-heart surgery, she’d outlived four siblings and her own longevity
expectations.

“Hell, people have tried to kiss me goodbye so often,
they’ve got chapped lips,” she quipped.

A cold bead of water meandered from my hairline down my
back. I used the towel May had commandeered to give my short hair a vigorous
scrub.

Jeez. My mind pattered about like an insomniac tap dancer.
Guess it balked at focusing on the present. Who wouldn’t want to block out Jake
Olsen’s walleyed death mask or Darlene’s sobs? Yet Jake’s death hadn’t brought
on the bone-rattling shakes I’d experienced two months before when I’d found a
friend dead in a Jacuzzi.

Two big differences between the corpses. It appeared the
Grim Reaper claimed Jake without a killer’s helping hand, and the tycoon was
almost a stranger. We’d shared one quick handshake at a gala event at the Iowa Great
Lakes Maritime Museum after Jake praised Ross as the nonprofit’s amiable
leader. I’d instantly liked the philanthropist for that.

Still the image of Darlene standing alone at the Queen’s
railing made me shudder. Once we reached port I’d ask how I could help. We
hadn’t spoken since our brief reunion at the start of the cruise. After
whooping with delight at seeing me, she’d whispered, “Some wedding reception.
These people are all Jake’s business cronies. You’re my only friend here.”

With a shake of my head, I tuned back into the conversations
swirling around me. Radio in hand, Ross alerted various authorities about the
accident. May pasted her cell phone to her ear and issued marching orders to
her daughter-in-law, Eunice.

“Find some dry clothes, too,” she suggested. “Marley looks
like a drowned squirrel. Maybe sweats from Ross’s locker. She’d never fit in
your clothes.”

Unfortunately, May was right. She called them like she saw
them.

My aunt toyed with a clip-on pearl earring as she talked.
“We need to keep the bulls separated from the cows. Let’s set up the museum
theater for Jake’s guests and try to corral the reporters in the museum proper
until we see what’s what.”

She paused, her forehead wrinkled in concentration. “Imagine
the authorities will need a space, too. Maybe the boardroom? Oh, better order
sandwiches from Yesterdays, and start some coffee.”

May stuffed her cell phone back in a pocketbook large enough
to double as a body bag and patted my hand as the Queen made stately progress
across a six-mile stretch of West Okoboji. High speed isn’t an option for a
double-decker tour boat ferrying more than a hundred passengers.

“Do you honestly expect a reporter stampede?” I asked. “The
local paper has what, a five-person staff?”

She speared me with a look. “You didn’t see the vultures
descend when that plane crashed over in Clear Lake with Buddy Holly, Ritchie
Valens and The Big Bopper aboard. I was visiting folks over there at the time.
Believe me, reporters will swarm out of the woodwork like termites. Jake’s
worth a billion.”

I choked. “Holy kamole.” I tried to watch my language around
May. “After I met the man at that museum benefit, Ross told me Jake was
wealthy. But he never mentioned Jake’s bank account boasted that many zeroes.”

Having set foot in Iowa twenty-four hours ago, I was way
behind on lake gossip.

“Jake founded Jolbiogen and made fifty million when he took
it public,” May said. “Just the beginning.”

I slipped off my wet socks and wrung them, creating a
miniature waterfall. “A billion dollars. Wow. I’d be hard-pressed to spend a
million.”

“Well, kid, I hear Jake’s family rolls up their sleeves to
help.”

My aunt often calls me “kid.” While it may not be the most
accurate handle for a Midwestern-bred baby boomer, May’s use of the moniker makes
me smile.

When Ross put down his radio, my aunt tapped him on the
shoulder. “D’you hear me talking with your bride? You need to radio Carlos.
Tell the sheriff, we’ll shepherd the passengers into the theater and attempt to
bottle the reporter vultures in the museum proper.”

“Already done,” Ross said. “I also told Sheriff Delaney the
boardroom was his. He wants to hold our passengers until he can get statements
from everyone.”

Beyond the wheelhouse window, Arnolds Park’s signature
roller coaster steadily grew taller. The amusement complex over a century old
provided a home to both the Maritime Museum and the Queen II, a replica of a
famed steamboat that plied the lake in the 1800s.

As Ross slid the Queen into her slip with studied grace, I
surveyed the reception committee gathered on the pier.

“There’s Gertie’s ride.” May pointed at a battered
four-wheel drive truck. “She’s parked beside the ambulance.”

I knew Gertie. The county medical examiner played bridge
every Thursday with my aunt. When May was Dickinson County Hospital’s Director
of Nursing and Gertie was a new hire, my aunt took the young nurse under her
wing. Later, May encouraged her protégé to return to medical school. The
addition of “Doctor” to Gertie Fuerst’s name hadn’t altered their friendship.

May chuckled at the assembly of official vehicles parked
catawampus along the pier. “It’ll be interesting to see who wins this pissing
contest. My bet’s on Sheriff Delaney. He’s that string bean who looks like he
withered on the vine. Not a man to underestimate.”

A rangy six-footer stood beside an SUV with Dickinson County
Sheriff emblazoned on the side. I watched as the sheriff shook a finger in the
face of a state trooper who’d just climbed off his motorcycle. In the
background, a cop leaned against a City of Arnolds Park cruiser. He’d
apparently conceded jurisdiction and was content to observe the fuss.

“We don’t get much excitement,” May said. “Guess that
trooper figured to get his mug on TV by responding to the death of a
celebrity.”

“What do you suppose killed Jake?” I asked. “A heart
attack?”

“Doubt it was a heart attack.” Having completed his docking
duties, Ross joined in the speculation. “At our museum board meeting last week,
Jake told me he’d just had a physical—EKG, cardiac scoring, the works. Passed
with flying colors.”

He turned toward May. “Yes, Mom, I know—some doctors don’t
know a stethoscope from an enema tube.” Ross and I grew up listening to Nurse
May grumble about know-it-all interns with book learning but no horse sense. In
other words, idiots who paid nurses no heed.