Death in a Family Way (24 page)

“Too many trees,” the pilot yelled back. He swung the craft back over the water and then began to fly along the shore in the direction that Larry had taken.

Farthing reached for the radio. “I'll call for extra help.”

“But what about Maggie?” Nat was beside himself. “We've got to find her!”

“Calm down, Southby,” Farthing yelled at him. “The police cutter will be here soon and they can search the house. We've got to see where that little punk has gone.”

“Open beaches ahead,” the pilot called out as he hugged the
rocky edge of the island. “Watch for him coming out into the open.”

Nat grabbed Herb's arm. “Look,” he yelled. “There's someone over there.”

Herb reached forward and indicated to the pilot to go down lower.

“Is it Larry?” Farthing cried.

“It's someone lying on the beach.” Nat leaned out of the open door. “Farthing! I think it's Maggie.”

“I can't get any closer,” the pilot yelled. “Herb, you'll have to jump.”

“Too many rocks,” Herb answered. “Take me out further and I'll jump with the life raft.” He beckoned Nat to help.

Moments later, the life raft landed with a splash, with Herb jumping after it into the choppy grey sea, quickly followed by Nat. It seemed an eternity before he stopped descending into the cold black water, and he thought his lungs would burst. Then, to his relief, he began to rise toward the light. Spluttering and choking on the salt water, he broke surface, only to waste precious minutes orienting himself in the direction of the beach.

Herb had already reached the life raft, rolled himself over the side into it and unfastened the oars from its side. He paddled over to where Nat was choking, spluttering and attempting to swim toward the shore. Herb extended his hand.

“There's no way I can climb into that thing,” Nat said, shivering with the intense cold that had seeped through the opening of the suit. “You get to Maggie.”

“Hang on to the raft,” Herb called to Nat. “I'll row.”

Heavy swells made the going painfully slow, and although Nat had shown bravado in donning the wetsuit and jumping into the waves, it had been many moons since he had been for a swim in a pool, let alone the sea. As he laboured toward the beach, he
regretted the extra weight he'd put on since he left the force. He even regretted his cherished cigar smoking.

As they neared the beach, Herb rolled out of the raft beside Nat so that together they could haul it carefully over the hidden rocks. But the huge breakers that crashed onto the shore created strong undercurrents that sucked their feet from beneath them and made them slip and slide on the slimy green stones. Eventually, dragging the raft behind them, the two men, bruised and gasping for breath, crawled to where Maggie lay. “Maggie!” Nat cried as he knelt down beside her. “Is she dead?” he asked Herb. “My God, is she dead?”

Herb rested his head on her chest. “No, she's still alive. Come on, we've got to get her out of the water.” Gently, they lifted and carried her higher up the beach.

“She's so cold,” Nat said, gathering her to him.

“She needs warmth,” Herb replied. “Get her wet clothes off.” And he ran back to the raft for the emergency blanket. After rolling her into the blanket, Nat held her as close to him as possible and tried to impart some warmth from his own shivering body.

“Hang on, Maggie,” he murmured to her. “Help's on the way. You're going to be all right.”

“They're coming,” Herb said, pointing out to sea.

Through the light mist they saw a police cutter speeding toward them, and in the distance, the sound of rotors heralded the return of the helicopter. As the cutter pulled close into the shore, an officer jumped from the deck and waded toward them through the breakers. “Have you seen Longhurst?” he demanded as he stumbled up the stony beach.

“Forget him,” Herb ordered. “Just get this woman on board so we can transfer her to the helicopter. There's not much time.”

Corporal Ritchie quickly knelt down beside Maggie and felt for a pulse.

“Blankets,” he yelled to his partner. “On the double.” Then he turned back to Nat. “She's in a bad way,” he confirmed as he wrapped the extra blankets around her. “Kappa, you radioed the chopper yet?” he yelled to the man who was manning the boat.

“They're ready to lower the stretcher in about two minutes,” Kappa called back. “Get her into the boat.”

Nat insisted on helping to carry Maggie over the stones and into the waiting police boat and hovered over her as they moved out into open water. He watched in fear from the deck as the stretcher was lowered and she was quickly fastened into it and hauled to safety. “Do you think she'll make it?” he asked Herb anxiously as the helicopter flew off.

“I honestly don't know, Nat,” Herb replied.

“You both need some warm clothing,” said Corporal Ritchie. “Kappa, get them some dry gear.”

As difficult as it had been getting into that tight wetsuit, Nat found it ten times worse trying to take it off. Eventually, as they neared Cuthbertson's dock, and with some help from Kappa, he was finally dressed in some jeans (tight and short in the leg), a T-shirt and sweatshirt (overly large) and runners that actually fit. He was ready to join in the hunt for Larry.

“We'd prefer you to wait on the dock,” Ritchie said as they clambered out of the launch. “He's got a gun.”

“I'm coming,” Nat answered.

Ritchie shrugged. “Okay. But I warn you, keep behind me.” He turned to Kappa. “You and Herb go up to the house after the woman.” He led the way onto the trail.

Climbing up the rocky trail behind Ritchie, his feet slipping on the loose stones, Nat wondered how Maggie had managed to get down to the beach.
She must have come this way,
he thought.
But how could she have done it alone?
He realized what an awful ordeal she had gone through and knew that he was at least partly
responsible, because he hadn't listened to what shed been trying to tell him. They took a breather on a large ledge and looked back to where they could see the dock. Ritchie flicked on his walkie-talkie and spoke to Kappa. “They've picked up the Larkfield woman,” he said, slipping the thing back into its case. “They're searching the house now.”

“Why didn't Larry take Cuthbertson's boat?” Nat asked. “They could've got away.”

“No ignition key,” Ritchie said, laughing grimly. “Come on, let's get going.”

“There've been several people on this trail,” Nat commented as he reached up to grab a rope-like root. He pointed to the holes where stones had come loose and now lay scattered on the ledge. “And look at all the broken roots and branches.”

“I wonder what these hiking boots are doing here?” Richie said, picking one up. “By the look of this terrain, you need 'em on.”

Nat's mind slipped back to the image of Maggie lying on the beach with bloodstained feet. “Let's get on with it and find that little bastard,” he said.

•  •  •

LARRY HAD REACHED THE FORK
in the path. He had heard the coming and going of the helicopter and police boat while he had been running along the trail and felt quite confident that they would be too busy chasing after Cuthbertson and Violet to bother about him. Somewhere on the north end of the island was the cabin that Cuthbertson had told him about. He would hole up there until everything had died down.

•  •  •

NAT WAS FINDING IT TOUGH
going to keep up with the younger, fitter man, and when he eventually reached the flat trail, Ritchie was well ahead of him. The pain in his side made him slow down to a walking pace. He noted the broken branches and recently
trodden plants on the narrow animal track and wondered how far Larry had got since he took flight.
After all,
he thought,
the island can't be that big. Where could he possibly hide?
He came to an abrupt stop. The trail had suddenly divided and in his preoccupation he, hadn't seen which way Ritchie had gone. He decided on the upper one and broke into a run again. After about ten minutes, he realized that the muddy path was getting much narrower and even disappeared every now and again as it ran through dense salal, salmonberry bushes and ferns. He began to wonder if he had made a mistake and should turn back to where the path had divided. Then, rounding a bend, he saw a huge tree trunk lying across the path. Panting and sweating with exertion, he braced his hands on it to give himself a breather before retracing his steps. His hands touched mud. There were muddy footprints and skinned bark leading over the log. One set! Larry had come this way! Hanging onto the broken branches, he heaved himself up and over, and with renewed determination, regained the trail again.

The path led down a gentle slope, and as Nat pushed his way through the brush, he heard the sound of breakers crashing on the rocks in the distance. Sunlight and occasional patches of blue sky filtered through the thinning trees ahead, telling him that he would soon come out into the open. He forced himself to slow down and to tread as quietly as possible.

The old wooden shack nestled against a wall of rock came as a complete surprise. Its broken windows were draped with wild honeysuckle, an old shake roof was covered with moss, and a rusty stove pipe stuck out of one end of it. The wooden door was partly open. Cautiously, Nat moved toward it.

“Stay right where you are.”

Nat whirled. Longhurst was standing about fifteen feet away, beside a lean-to covering a pile of firewood. There was a revolver in his hand and it was pointed at Nat.

“Don't be stupid, Larry,” Nat said, taking a few paces toward him. “The cops'll be here soon.”

“Back off.” The hand holding the gun was shaking. “You can't fool me, old man.”

“Hand over the gun, Larry.” Nat took another step forward. “They've picked up Cuthbertson.”

“Don't come any closer.”

“They're onto you, Larry.”

“They can't prove anything.” Longhurst waved the gun at Nat. “Get into the shack. Go on!”

“They've also picked up your aunt,” Nat said quietly, taking a few more steps. “She'll spill everything.”

“Shut up! Shut up!” Longhurst screamed. “Get into the fucking shed.”

Nat took another step closer and Longhurst's gun hand began to waver. With a yell, Nat sprang forward and lunged for the .38, sending the younger man crashing to the ground. But Longhurst was up on his feet immediately, giving Nat a smashing blow in the face. With a roar of pain, Nat lowered his head and rammed it into the other man's stomach, sending him and the gun flying. They fell to the ground, rolling and smashing at each other with their fists as each tried to gain control. Nat saw the gun just feet away and tried to roll toward it, but his tired body was no match for the younger man's. Larry smashed his fist into Nat's face, grabbed the weapon, and with a sudden twist was astride him, pinning him to the ground.

“Now what, old man?” Longhurst said, grinning, pointing the gun downward. Gathering all his strength, Nat tried to push Larry off and make another grab for the gun. The sound of the report as the bullet went through his shoulder nearly shattered Nat's eardrums. He fell back, dazed, and looked up into Larry's cold eyes as he lifted the gun once more and pointed it at Nat's head.

The pain of the bullet wound in his shoulder flooded over him in waves as he twisted under Larry's weight, trying to push him off, so it took awhile for Nat to realize that the next shot he heard was sending Larry reeling backwards instead of sending
him
to the next world.

“Bloody amateurs,” he heard Ritchie say as he passed out.

Farthing, after leaving Maggie at the hospital and arranging transport for Collins and his wife, had returned by seaplane to pick up his prisoners and take Nat back to the city for treatment. And now, hours later, his arm in a sling and his face covered with cuts and bruises, Nat emerged from the Lions Gate Hospital's emergency room, only to come face to face with a raging Harry.

“Is she okay?” Nat demanded. “Have you seen her?”

“No thanks to you, she's still alive,” Harry replied curtly.

“I'm truly sorry,” Nat said, sinking into a chair.

“Sorry? Sorry isn't good enough,” Harry said, standing over Nat. “If anything happens to her, I'll . . . I'll . . . sue you.”

Nat patted the chair beside him. “Sit down, Harry. We'll wait together.”

“You get away from me, you . . . you . . .” He turned away from Nat in disgust. “Don't you ever, ever contact my wife again.”

The recovery room door opened and a white-coated doctor came out. “Nat Spencer?” he enquired. Both Nat and Harry stood up.

“My name is Harry Spencer,” Harry said primly. “And I'm Margaret's husband. How is she?”

“Lucky,” the doctor said. “She'll be okay.”

“Can I see her now?” Harry asked, walking toward the door.

“Yes, but she keeps asking for someone called Nat. Do you know who she means?”

“No,” Harry said angrily. “I'll see my wife now.” The doctor looked puzzled, but he nodded and led the way inside.

Nat smiled weakly at the doctor's news, and walking back to his chair, sat down to wait. But the hours went by slowly. Sawasky, back from Toronto, turned up at the hospital and found a totally exhausted Nat asleep across three chairs. Taking matters into his own hands, he persuaded him to go home to bed. “I'll let you know when you can see her,” Sawasky promised as he delivered Nat to his apartment. “Get yourself a stiff drink and sleep.”

Early the next morning, nursing a thumping headache, Nat called the hospital to learn that Maggie's condition was “satisfactory.” But still no visitors permitted except immediate family. Taking a cup of coffee to the telephone, he dialed Farthing's number. “What's happened?” he demanded when he was eventually connected.