| |
In her kayak, Sam could paddle from Fossil Bay to the shore of Mud Bay in under twenty minutes, but traveling overland was a whole different experience. Anger kept her warm enough to dog-paddle to the far end of the cove where, shivering and standing in knee-deep water, she shucked her spray skirt and life vest and eyed the best way to ascend the steeply sloping bank. It was the only possible route up out of the bay, but it was covered with Himalayan blackberry bushes, the invasive scourge of the Pacific Northwest, the interwoven spiked branches eagerly waiting to claw her hair and skin.
There was nothing to be done except battle through them. She’d lost one of her water sandals, so she kicked the other one off. She tossed her spray skirt as far as she could up the bank, then started to follow that with her life vest, remembering at the last second to recover her car key from the front pocket, slipping it into her waterlogged bra.
Her right arm felt numb, and she had a hard time controlling that hand. Her left shoulder ached but still worked. The warm liquid that ran down her face had to be blood, but she had nothing to control the flow, unless she peeled off the lightweight shirt she wore. She settled for wiping blood out of her eyes with her shirttail and periodically pressing her hand against the gash she felt at her hairline. Finally, out of desperation, she plastered a fallen leaf against the wound, which was no doubt unhygienic but miraculously served to glue the cut more or less closed. By the time she finally gained the top of the hill, the sun had set.
She checked the lone house there. Not a single light shone through the windows. No vehicles. No sign of life. She remembered reading that the family who owned the property had generously left it to the county as park land. Looked as if the owners had already abandoned it. No help there.
She set off again, still shivering but warmer now from her exertions, climbing along the hillside above the water, forced to hang onto rocks and trees and claw her way along to keep from falling into the bay. The cliffs rose steeply from the water, their vertical sides either slick wind-polished sandstone or obstacle courses of vines, twisted madronas, and ferns barely clinging to the rocky slopes.
She was an idiot. Why the hell didn’t she carry her cell phone when she went on these little adventures?
Because they were little adventures, she argued. If she’d been kayaking between islands in the San Juans, she would have worn her wetsuit and dry top and armed herself with a marine radio as well as a cell phone. But this was her back yard; she paddled in Chuckanut Bay all the time. There were usually enough boaters here to call in an alarm if needed, and she’d never landed in trouble before.
Still, she cursed her stupidity as she clawed her way along the steep sides of the bay, crossing above the railroad tunnel as one of the damned coal trains thundered through beneath her, the engine blasting its horn as it went. It might have been possible to climb up to the houses of the wealthy perched on the cliff top above her, but she was more interested in reaching her car, and even if some kind neighbor there drove her the circular route back to Mud Bay, that would no doubt take just as long. After two hours of struggling along the steep banks and one startling encounter with a fang-baring raccoon, she finally was able to stand upright on the beach at the north end of Mud Bay.
She stomped her way back to her car. There was absolutely no doubt that the attack had been deliberate. Someone had tried to kill her. It had taken her so long to extract herself from the wreckage that he probably believed she’d drowned.
She had no doubt that her attacker was a “he.” A “he” with a pickup and a speedboat. He knew both her and her kayak, and she’d foolishly told him about Mud Bay. He couldn’t have put his boat in there to follow her, but it was a relatively short drive to the boat ramp in Larrabee Park, and then a speedy trip around the coastline to Chuckanut Bay and Fossil Bay.
He knew she’d found a button belonging to his son on a trail where two women had been murdered. He knew she’d heard his pleas to his son about leaving the past behind. He’d cost her a kayak worth more than a thousand dollars and a paddle worth five hundred. He had intended to cost Sam her life.
In the dark parking lot, she swapped her drowned and torn pants and shirt for the dry clothes she always kept in the trunk: fleece top, yoga pants, dry socks, and running shoes. She was hungry, she was exhausted. Her head hurt, her shoulder and elbow ached, and her hands and feet were on fire, shredded by her trek back from Fossil Cove.
Tom Lewis no doubt believed he had killed Sam Westin, just like he’d killed her friends. She was furious, and suddenly absolutely certain she was right. But the murders still made no sense, and she still had no proof. Nick had to know about the crime—what would happen to him? If Tom was willing to go after her, would he kill his son?
The Lewises obviously had guns in the house. At times during the Wilderness Quest expedition, Nick had seemed almost suicidal. Was he likely to kill himself? Was he already dead? Her imagination produced a terrible vision of Nick’s body sprawled in blood across the floor. The clock could be ticking for that boy.
As she started her car and pulled out of the shadows, she considered calling 9-1-1. And say what? She didn’t have time to explain what had just happened and detail all her suspicions; she jammed her ancient plug-in GPS unit into the cigarette lighter and yelled at it to wake up and find the Lewis address in Everett as she pulled onto I-5 southbound. If only the dang thing could make a phone call. What would get the police to go and check on the Lewis house right away?
She could think of only one thing. She pulled into the first rest stop and called 9-1-1 from the pay phone there. It took five minutes of repetition to explain that it didn’t matter who or where she was, she needed the Everett police to check on the welfare of a child at the Lewis address. There were guns in the house and the child could be in danger from his father.
“Who are you in relationship to this child?” the operator kept asking. “Why do you think the child could be in danger?”
In exasperation, she hung up, unsure if the operator had taken her seriously. As she exited the highway on the outskirts of Everett forty minutes later, she passed a police cruiser headed the opposite way. She honked and waved, but the officer driving didn’t even glance in her direction as he accelerated onto the on-ramp.
The voice of her grumpy GPS unit guided her through a maze of dark streets to the Lewis house, often issuing directions too late to make the turns, and then chanting “recalculating...” to her annoyance. Twice it ordered her to make a U-turn and backtrack.
The address was on the edge of a newish suburb, down a long gravel side street. The area appeared to be a subdivision in progress, or maybe one that had run out of financing midway. Gigantic white “For Sale” signs sprouted along the roadside, like weeds grown out of control. Wooded lots predominated, with only two houses carved out of the forest bordering the long street. The Lewis house was the last indication of development in the area.
Lights from within the small ranch-style house spilled out through windows into the dark yard. She parked in the shadows of the forested lot next door, then walked back to the Lewis house. The speedboat, on its trailer, was parked next to a detached garage. She limped toward it.
A security light flashed on.
Shit. Gasping, she dove into the shadows between boat and garage. She ran her hand along the flank of the speedboat. Dry. Damn.
She gave herself a mental slap; of course it would be dry after Lewis had towed it the same distance she’d just driven. Out of her sight, she heard the back door of the house open.
“I don’t see anything.”
A wave of relief passed through her gut. Nick’s voice sounded small and wobbly, but he was alive.
The security light winked out. Sam stood up, placed her hand on the rollers on the side of the trailer. Tom had wrapped them in terrycloth to protect his precious boat. They were still wet.
“Go check.” Tom’s gravelly voice.
Crap. She crouched, waiting in the shadows as tentative footsteps neared.
The security light flashed on again, illuminating Nick, who seemed to have shrunk since she last saw him. His face, still with mustache and soul patch in place, gleamed in the bright light, his bruises completely healed.
“Nick,” she whispered.
He startled, and for a second she was afraid he might scream. Instead, he slapped a hand over his lips and peered intently in her direction.
She stepped into the light.
His mouth popped open, and for another second, she was terrified he was going to shout a warning to his father. She abruptly remembered that she’d forgotten to check her car mirror. Coated in filth, with wild hair and streaks of dried blood running down her face, she probably looked like she had recently escaped from the grave. In a way, she had.
“Cap’n Sam!” Nick threw himself at her, hugging her fiercely.
His embrace hurt her shoulder and elbow, but she closed her arms around him, glad to see he seemed okay. He stuttered into her neck. “He said ... he said ... you were dead.”
“He tried. Why, Nick?”
“It’s my fault.”
“Nick?” Tom’s voice boomed into the quiet evening. “What’s going on?”
Nick stepped away from the garage wall into the driveway, swallowed hard, turned his face toward the house. “Nuh ... nothing.”
Tom’s shadow preceded him. The silhouette of a big man, striding purposefully in their direction.
“Run!” Nick urged, stepping forward to tug on Sam’s sleeve.
She stood her ground, wanting to see Tom Lewis’s reaction when he spotted her.
She wasn’t disappointed. The man’s eyes rounded, his mouth dropped open, and he even took a step backward.
He recovered quickly. “So that was you who called the cops, you little bitch. Child endangerment, my ass.”
The police car she’d passed must have responded to her 9-1-1 call after all. But Tom had obviously passed their questioning.
“What are you doing here?” he growled.
“I wanted you to see that you didn’t succeed.” She ignored Nick’s insistent tugging.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Nick, come here.” Tom slid his hand behind his back and she saw the shadow of the pistol before the weapon itself as he drew it from his waistband. “Nick, come here!”
Nick yanked on her sleeve so hard he nearly pulled her off her feet. “Run!”
Grabbing his hand, she did.
