Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim (31 page)

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.

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.

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."

"No, it wasn't." Mike jumped on her words. "What happened in no way reflects on
you."

"Frank saw me as insignificant. He called me a pawn." Frank was a predator, and predators
select the weak, the wounded and the isolated as their victims. The woman she'd become after
Tom's death was all of those things.

"Don't let Palmer define you," Mike said. "Criminals are egotists. To them, everyone else is
insignificant. That's what allows them to kill."

"Give yourself credit," Jason said. "You escaped from Palmer. You made your way through
the marsh at night. That took real courage."

"What if he escaped too?" She was afraid the police were underestimating Frank.

"I was skeptical," Mike said, "but we've received additional details from the Coast Guard.
Three boats saw the fire and raced to the rescue. By the time they arrived, Palmer's boat was
engulfed in flames. The dinghy was still attached. They searched the water but found no one."

"They still haven't found a body, have they?"

"After twenty-four hours, they stop looking," Jason said. "Sharks. No one's going to find
anything."

"He could have arranged for another boat to meet him. Frank always had a plan B." On a
rational level, she could be convinced that Frank was dead, but on an emotional level, she needed
reassurance.

"Someone would've seen that boat," Mike leaned forward as if getting closer would give his
words more weight. "Every question you're asking me, I asked the Coast Guard. They're adamant.
No one survived."

Lieutenant Breton stopped by the door to say Superintendent Vernon waited for them in
the third floor conference room. For a moment, Claire wished Felix were there. He'd offered, but
Mike had told her she didn't need a lawyer unless she wanted one.

As they walked to the elevator, he took her arm. "Don't worry," he said. "You'll be
fine."

The meeting was easier than she'd anticipated. A typist and a tape recorder captured her
words as she described the events of Monday night. Although she hadn't taken any extra meds, the
new regimen, she was able to talk about what happened without reliving the terror. When Jason
described finding her in the marsh, he made her sound like a heroine instead of the frightened
woman she'd been.

Afterwards, Mike escorted her to the front door. "Before you go," he said, "I want to ask if
there's anything we can do to help you get your life back to normal. The Department offers
counseling."

"No, thank you."

He persisted. "Victims of violent crimes frequently blame themselves. It's perfectly normal,
but it's self-destructive. Counseling addresses this."

"I don't need counseling." She spoke more sharply than she intended.

"Please don't be offended, but I think you should consider it."

"Thank you, but no. This is between me and me." As she walked down the steps, she felt his
gaze on her back, but she didn't turn around.

A uniformed officer stood at the end of her driveway and kept the reporters away as her
cab drove through the gates.
Thank you, Mike.
She walked in her front door and collapsed on
the sofa. Dorian jumped up immediately, no playing hard to get this morning. She stroked his soft
fur and let his purring soothe her. She was going to be fine; she could cope, one day at a time.

Her answering machine was flashing again. She checked her messages to be sure none
were important. The first two were from reporters wanting interviews. She erased them and then
listened in surprise to Jeanette's voice.