With Deadly Intent (2 page)

She got to her feet. “I'll check a few places.”

Tom planted himself in her path. “Don't you go helping him get away. We got plenty of
evidence to bring charges. All we need now is the Dorset woman's body. And I'm betting
we'll have that before the day's out.”

Amy met his stare straight on. “If something has happened to her, Oren didn't do it.” She
started for the door. “And when I find him, he'll tell you so himself.”

“You keep your hands off that silver van of his, if you find it. This murder is Island
business—not yours.”

Her father rose from where he was packing equipment into an aluminum case. He drew
himself up to his full five-foot ten and hunched muscular shoulders. “I've just made Amy
my assistant. What do you say to that?”

Calder grabbed his hat and slapped it on his head. “This maniac is your nephew. By rights
neither one of you should be allowed on the case.” He glared at her father. “You see she
doesn't foul things up, or I'll have your job. Other people may think you're a super
sleuth—I don't.” He shoved past them and stomped out of the apartment.

Her father lowered himself into a chair. “Might not do your budding career any good to
get mixed up in this.”

“That's the least of my worries right now. Did you ever meet Elise?”

“Yeah, about a month ago. She and Oren came by the house and asked if they could use the
ketch. Oren wanted to show Elise some of the other islands.”

“What did you think of her?”

“Sweet, soft-spoken young woman. Seemed to think the world of Oren. Didn't take her eyes,
or her hands off him during the whole visit. Sure looked like a couple of love birds to
me.”

“Then why aren't they getting along?” She and Mitch had argued over his drinking, his
gambling debts and—she pressed her arms tight to her sides—his habit of straying into
other women's beds.

“Any relationship can go off track. You know that as well as I do.”

She winced. A year had passed since her divorce and still the wounds hadn't healed. She
gave a long sigh. “I'd better go before I fall asleep on my feet.”

“Take my car. If you find Oren and Elise you can call Tom on the cellular phone.”

“Good idea. Meanwhile you try and get some rest.”

“No can do. I have an autopsy to do over on Orcas Island. I should be back by one. Maybe
then you'll have located the two of them and we can forget this whole mess.”

They were ready to leave when Amy let out a low cry. “Dad, I forgot all about Aunty
Helen. She mustn't hear about this from anyone but us.”

Her father put his arm around her. “You go search. I'll stop by Helen's house on my way
to the ferry.”

Amy turned and kissed his cheek. “Tell her I'll try to come see her sometime this
weekend.”

Amy transferred her camera, forensic satchel, and other necessary paraphernalia from her
station wagon to her father's four-wheeler and drove back to the cottage. After a quick
shower and a change of clothes, she put on her hiking boots. Oren's favorite haunts were
varied. She might have to explore several of them before she found him.

She fed Cleo, her black cocker and called Marcus Aurelius, her marmalade-colored Manx
cat. He didn't answer. Marcus didn't forgive her long absences as readily as Cleo. She
set out a dish of his favorite food and called again. From past experience she knew he
was probably observing her from a limb of the big maple beside the cottage. Few people
entered or left her house without him knowing it. The full-blooded Manx stood nearly as
tall as Cleo. Unwary intruders who tangled with him never returned.

One glance at the overcast sky warned her she'd better prepare for anything. She tossed
her slicker and down jacket onto the back seat.

The long driveway circled past her father's house. Weathered gray shingles covered roof
and sides of the rambling two-story house and gave it the appearance of a fat, many
petticoated dowager sprawled inelegantly on the wooded hillside. Perhaps not the most
beautiful house in the world, but she'd been born and raised there and she loved every
ancient inch of it.

She turned right on Westridge Avenue and headed toward Faircliff, the only town on the
fifty-mile-square island. The avenue snaked up a wooded hill. On the other side, the
route broke clear of the trees and curved along the shore. Mountainous green swells
capped with bone-white spindrift thundered against craggy basalt rocks.

She blinked eyes that felt like they'd been sand blasted. During her medical internship,
she'd lost many a night's sleep. Time well spent, but this could be just wasted effort.
The sheriff, with his need to feel important, had probably made a mystery where none
existed.

Wishful thinking and she knew it, but she had to believe Elise was alive and Oren
innocent of the accusations piled on him. Otherwise, she didn't know him—didn't know him
at all.

After passing the ferry dock, she turned onto East Shore Road. When she reached Murres
Bay, she didn't see Oren's van, but she got out and skidded down the steep, winding
trail anyway.

She and Oren had always liked this place. Wind and waves had carved deep cavelike
depressions in the rocks where the two of them could sit.

Maybe Oren had brought Elise here in hopes the calming atmosphere would help them
communicate. It had worked for Amy and Oren in the past.

Oren's father had deserted him in much the same manner as her own mother had. When she
and Oren were teenagers, they came here many times filled to the teeth with anger and
bitterness. Usually, the blend of sand, sea, and surf worked its soothing magic.

Her search proved fruitless so she headed into the hills. Long ago Spanish explorers had
named Lomitas Island after the many small promontories that formed a wooded spine down
the center of the island. Tallest of these was Mt. Sosiego. The ancient seafarers had
named the mountain after the peaceful vista.

Like many of the islanders, Sosiego was Oren's favorite haunt. She could easily imagine
him bringing Elise here in the midst of last night's storm. The forested area had an
uplifting effect, regardless of the weather.

Maybe, he was hiding out. She squelched the traitorous thought. For all she knew, this
Mrs. Michaels could be working some kind of a hoax. As PR man for Senator Halliday, Oren
made a prime target for a smear campaign.

Perked up with renewed hope, Amy got out of the car. Even though it was a rugged mile
hike to the campgrounds, she had to find out if Oren and Elise were there. They could
have parked elsewhere and climbed up by one of the other trails.

The rain had stopped so she changed from her slicker to a down jacket and set out through
the Douglas firs. Wind shushed through the needled canopy showering her with icy
droplets of hoarded rain water. She swore and wiped her glasses.

Ahead of her, nuthatches flitted back and forth in the underbrush, twittering nervously.
Inside her brain, a question imitated the small black and gray birds. What if she didn't
find them? She lengthened her stride.

In her haste, she tripped over a root and fell onto all fours. She gritted her teeth
against smarting bruises, hoisted herself up and limped on.

Half an hour later, the smell of wood smoke took away all thought of aching leg muscles.
The heavy timber growth thinned and she entered a clearing. On the far side, his back to
her, a man in a green-hooded parka hunkered beside a fire.

“Oren ... ?” He didn't move. Then, she realized she'd only whispered his name. What if it
wasn't him? She picked up a club and took a couple of steps. “Oren ... ?”

The man jerked upright and turned to stare at her. “Good Christ, Amy. What the hell are
you doing up here?”

She dropped her weapon. “Thank God, it's you.” She rushed forward to give him a joyous
hug, but stopped before she reached him. Their friendship had been more boy to boy than
boy to girl, and a sudden show of emotion would have embarrassed both of them. Besides,
this unshaven, sullen-faced man bore little resemblance to the playmate of her youth.

She peered around, hoping to see a tent hidden among the trees. “Where's Elise?”

He shrugged, poured water on the fire and tossed dirt over charred wood with a small
shovel he took from his packsack.

Amy braced herself against a tree. “Oren, I'm not here by accident. I came looking for
you.” He raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment. She continued with her explanation. Upon
hearing of Mrs. Michaels' call to the sheriff, his sullen expression grew even more so.
But when Amy told him his apartment had been wrecked and Elise and his van were missing,
he shouldered his packsack and started down the trail at a near run.

Neither of them spoke. Amy couldn't have if she'd wanted to. It took all of her breath
just to keep up with him. When they reached her father's car, Oren waited impatiently
while she called the sheriff's office. “I'm on Mt. Sosiego,” she said, when Calder came
on the line. “Oren's with me.”

“Stay put. I'll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Oren grabbed the phone. “Meet us at my apartment.”

“Like hell,” Calder shot back. “You set one foot off that mountain and I'll slap you in
jail so fast you won't know what hit you. Is that clear?”

Oren crammed the phone into its receiver. “Officious hard-headed bastard,” he muttered.

She rephrased her words several times before she gave up and blurted out, “What happened
last night?”

He swung around. “Nothing.”

She wet her lips. “Mrs. Michaels said you hit Elise, and that it wasn't the first time.
Is ... is that true?”

His gray eyes darkened. “What do you think?”

“I ... I'm not sure.”

He ran spread fingers through his tousled hair and glowered at her. “You're not sure?”
His mouth twisted. “I thought you were my friend.”

“I didn't mean...”

“Forget it.” He hunched his shoulders and prowled back and forth across the parking lot.

The sheriff and one of his deputies arrived a short time later. While the deputy climbed
to the campground to look around, Calder interrogated Amy. After he finished, he
dismissed her and began on Oren.

As she drove down the mountain, Amy beat the steering wheel in impotent frustration. Tom
hadn't let her hear Oren's story, so she knew no more than she had before.

She reached the main road and turned left. Nothing she'd done so far had helped Oren's
cause. Perhaps if she located the van she'd also find Elise.

She circled the northern tip of the island. At Devil's Point, she asked fishermen
gathered in the store if they'd seen a silver van, and none had. Undaunted, she went on,
taking care to investigate all the side roads.

She stopped at the Fish Shack in Lomitas Harbor and ordered a ham sandwich. While she
ate, she questioned the waitress and the men working at the marina. Finally, she
admitted defeat and started for home.

Along this stretch of Westridge Avenue, evergreens grew so thickly she caught only
fleeting glimpses of the surging white-tipped waves in Rosario Strait. All this land,
from Lomitas Harbor to a mile beyond Otter Inlet, had belonged to the Prescotts for
generations.

Like many others on the island, her great, great-grandfather had had to build the house
and beach cottage on a long sloping hillside. The location had one disadvantage. A steep
embankment at the foot of the slope prevented him from getting supplies to his anchored
ship. To remedy the problem, he'd gone a quarter of a mile north of the house and carved
another access through terrain broken by rocky hummocks and yawning ravines.

As Amy passed the road now known as Prescott's Byway, she noticed tire tracks. She
stopped the car and walked back to explore the tree-enclosed lane. Although tire marks
didn't show up well on gravel, bits of mud and disturbed pebbles indicated a vehicle of
some kind had come this way.

Keeping to the shoulder so as not to obscure tracks, she scrambled through patches of
bracken fern growing between alder and vine maple. She forced herself to go slow and
choose her path with care. The lane straddled a narrow strip of land between two deep
ravines, and a misstep would send her tumbling down into a rugged, bramble-festooned
gully.

Gradually the road's downward pitch grew more abrupt. She rounded a bend and stopped
short. Parked on the side of the road—a road Oren knew better than almost anyone else on
the island—sat the silver van.

She swallowed hard and moved forward cautiously. The vehicle had skidded off the graveled
surface and sunk to the axle in mud. Dreading what she might find, she peered in the
windows. Empty. She took a relieved breath and returned to her car.

After she reported to the sheriff, she called her father's house and caught him as he
walked in the front door. She quickly repeated her story.

“I'll be there in a few minutes,” he said.

“I think I'll go on down to the beach,” she said. “The van was on its way out when it got
stuck.”

“Take care, Amy. We haven't the vaguest notion who, or what we may be dealing with.”

“Don't worry. I'll find me an equalizer.” She put down the phone, took a crescent wrench
from his tool box behind the front seat, and slipped it into her pocket. Her nerves
drawn taut, she draped the strap of her camera kit over one shoulder, grabbed the handle
of her forensic satchel, and, returned to the byway.

Where the road ended in a turnaround, she studied the surrounding landscape. Anyone
heading for the beach or the cliffs would have had to cross the sand dunes. And if he
were carrying someone—a shudder went through her—his feet would have sunk into soft
sand.

She stood rooted to the spot, picturing Oren lugging ... no, she wouldn't consider it,
not even for an instant. She cleared her mind and got down to business. With the
infinite care drummed into her by her father and her instructors, she scanned the area,
sector by sector. After a ten minute search, she discovered a man's footprint embedded
in a mixture of damp clay and sand.