“When you write suspense, you have to know where you’re going because you have to drop little hints along the way. With an outline, I always know where the story is going.”
—JOHN GRISHAM
Libby hears rapid-fire conversation coming from the kitchen as muffled voices rise and fall like the rhythmic ebb and flow of a tide, punctuated now and then by a sharp staccato as someone slaps the well-worn pine table for emphasis.
Different from the comfortable atmosphere of conversation and laughter that usually fill their home, the air is charged with a prickly edge born of interrogation as the two police officers, Herb and Chris—short for Christine—ask and re-ask their questions, trying to piece together the evening’s events after briefly checking Thoreau cottage to verify that Jason isn’t there.
Niall is one of the warmest people on earth, and Libby knows with certainty that he, ever the diligent host, is in the kitchen dispensing Scottish coffee—an antidote as effective as any.
When his mother passed away, he told Libby, “Sometimes it’s the rituals that get us through.”
She remembers how he looked. Niall had a dish towel fisted on one hip as he explained—his Scots burr coming thicker—“Scottish coffee is a wee bit different than the Irish kind. The main difference is that Irish whiskey is distilled three times, whereas scotch, only twice. That means we use half again as much. Are you followin’ the mathematics of it all darlin’?” he’d ask her with a big smile and a deep wink.
As if in a classroom instead of a kitchen he’d continued, “Now we start by brewin’ a pot of espresso. You know, espresso is as much an art as it is a science.” This bit of knowledge he’d delivered while using the dish towel to wipe an imaginary smudge from his shiny espresso machine.
“Now measure the scotch and sugar together in warmed glass mugs with handles. Add the espresso and stir until the sugar’s completely dissolved. Don’t skip this step,”—he’d lifted a warning finger—“even if you don’t normally put sugar in your coffee. You see, lass, the sugar helps the cream to float above the coffee. Then top it off with a big dollop of freshly whipped cream. Once the cream’s in place, don’t stir. It’s imperative to drink the coffee through the cream.” He’d ended with a flourish, bending at the waist and handed her a delicious cup of freshly made Scottish coffee.
Libby shakes her head to clear her mental reverie. Given the gravity of the situation, she knows that to soothe frayed nerves, the doses in Niall’s coffee this evening are more liberal than usual. And as sure as the sun will rise, she also knows that she’ll soon smell the heavenly goodness of his homemade biscuits, as much to ease himself as everyone else. The warmth of this knowledge helps dispel the chill she felt moments before.
Sitting on the tiles in the first-floor bathroom with Hemingway’s head in her lap, the length of his body across the cold, hard flooring, Libby distracts herself from watching Dr. Sutton gather instruments from his bag. As she looks up, her gaze takes in the lights above the mirror over the sink. Her thoughts take a welcome, mind-numbing turn as it wanders to a piece of homemaking advice her mother had given her as a young bride.
“Always use soft pink lightbulbs in your bathrooms dear, especially the guest bathroom. The subtle pink color coating enhances everything with a slightly warmer tone that detracts from flaws and compliments any face, delighting your guests.”
Looking down at Hemingway’s lacerated body she knows full well the lighting isn’t complimenting anything, and it can’t come close to easing the harshness of the situation.
“Is he going to be okay?” Libby asks Dr. Sutton, watching his rough, old hands feel through Hemingway’s blood-soaked, wiry coat and then insert the bevel of a needle into a vein in his neck.
Hemingway flinches slightly but holds his doe-eyed gaze—filled with trust—on Libby’s face as the vet’s calloused thumb slowly pushes the plunger down the syringe barrel, easing sodium pentobarbital into the bloodstream where it travels swiftly throughout his system. Eyes too heavy to keep open, Hemingway closes his lids and drifts off to sleep.
“He’ll be much better off anesthetized while I wash and tend to his wounds. And so will we for that matter,” he says, his eyes smiling through craggy brows. “You’re holding up well,” he continues encouragingly. “Care to help me get him cleaned and stitched up?”
“I’m at your service. Tell me what to do.”
The hospital is shockingly bright compared to the storm-tossed evening outside. Mick can’t seem to sit still. He needs to do something. With a thin green ambulance blanket draped over his shoulders, he wears a path in the highly buffed linoleum floor of the emergency waiting area, his limp more pronounced than usual. Frustration mounting, Mick realizes that repeatedly checking his watch doesn’t make its hands move any faster. As he walks, he clenches and unclenches his hands. Just hours ago, they’d been holding Emma’s.
Taking another lap around the waiting area, his mind replays Cynthia’s voice. “It was Jason. He fell over the cliff, and he’s dead.”
Using the combined processes of experience and elimination, Dr. Alice Zimmerman approaches Mick, her low heels tapping across the worry-paved flooring as she enters the waiting room.
The space is designed to calm. Neat and tidy, of course, but with a comfortable, open style, quiet colors, and soothing music meant to tranquilize frayed nerves.
As she extends her hand, she asks, “Are you the person who escorted Cynthia Winters in the ambulance?”
“I am. I’m Sean McPherson,” he answers, noting the doctor’s firm, professional handshake. “Is she going to be okay?”
Seeing the deep lines of worry creased in his forehead, she asks kindly, “Are you a relative?” as she guides them toward two overstuffed chairs angled companionably toward each other and they sit. Her lap is holding a no-nonsense clipboard stayed by the flat palms of her hands. His lap is supporting two fists that he clenches and unclenches in an unconscious effort to relieve anxiety.
“No. Cynthia’s one of our guests at Pines & Quill.”
“The writers’ retreat out by the cliffs,” she says, more as confirmation than a question. “I’ve heard of it. First let me say, Ms. Winters is going to be okay. But in addition to suffering from a cluster headache, she’s lost a lot of blood from the wound on her thigh. Thankfully, her femoral artery was only nicked instead of cut or severed. Can you tell me about the circumstances around that?”
“I don’t understand, what’s a cluster headache? Is it like a migraine?” Mick asks.
“A cluster headache is one of the most painful types of headaches there is. In fact, they’ve been described as ‘suicide headaches,’ a reference to the excruciating pain and resulting desperation that has culminated in actual suicide. They can be debilitating and last from weeks to months, or vanish as quickly as they arrive and stay in remission for months, even years before recurring.”
“How do you know that’s what she has? Can you help her?”
“When I was stitching her leg, she came to long enough to tell me before passing out again.” Cool, calm, and collected, the doctor continues. “Unfortunately, there’s no cure for cluster headaches, but they can be treated with medication to decrease the severity of pain and reduce duration. Right now, we’re treating Ms. Winters with pure oxygen through a breathing mask. The effects of this are usually felt within minutes and provide dramatic relief for most patients.
“Once she comes around, we’ll get an accurate medical history. If we can rule out high blood pressure and heart disease, we’ll give her an injection of triptans. But Mr. McPherson, you still haven’t told me why Ms. Winters arrived looking like she was tattooed in blood, and how she sustained the trauma on her thigh.”
“Dr. Zimmerman, all I know about the gash in Cynthia’s leg is that Hemingway”—noting her quizzical look under raised eyebrows, he explains—“he’s my dog,” and then continues, “came and got me. I called my brother-in-law and told him to bring the ATV,” and we took Cynthia back to the main house where an ambulance was waiting to bring her here. That’s the extent of what I know.”
“What was Ms. Winters doing out in the storm?”
“I have no idea, but I’m just as anxious to find out as you are.”
“We’re going to keep her overnight. She’s been through quite an ordeal, and there’s always a potential for shock. Plus, I want to keep an eye out for infection in her leg, and also see if she’s a potential candidate for triptans. By the way, that was some pretty impressive work you did with the sleeve tourniquet,” she says, pausing to look pointedly at his missing shirt. “I’m grateful I didn’t have any resulting complications to clean up after someone who doesn’t know what they were doing. Where did you get your training?”
“I was on the police force.”
“Was, as in past tense?” she asks, standing as Mick stands too.
“That’s correct, I’m no longer active.”
“It’s their loss,” she says, smiling and extends her hand. “I’m sorry about the circumstances, but it’s a pleasure meeting you.”
And with that, she turns around and retraces the path on the well-worn floor until double doors shush closed behind her retreating white lab coat.
Mick’s tired step triggers sensors hidden under the massive, black rubber mat and the automatic sliding doors of the emergency room glide open. As he steps between them, he’s welcomed by a blast of fresh night air and a gravelly smoker’s voice. “Hey, buddy.”
Mick turns to see Skip, the lead paramedic on Cynthia’s ride to the hospital, also a poker-night friend. His head is shrouded in cigarette smoke.
“Even though it stopped raining, I figured you might want a ride back home.”
The sole of Skip’s shoe pushes him away from the wall he’d been leaning against while waiting for Mick, and the two men fall into step as they head for the ambulance.
They ride in companionable silence most of the way. Arriving at the massive wrought-iron entry gate—Welcome to Pines & Quill—Mick thanks Skip for the ride. “I’d prefer to walk the rest of the way to clear my head before answering what’s sure to be a boatload of questions when I get to the main house.”
Watching the taillights, extinguished by the dark distance, Mick opens the gate that separates hearth and home from the rest of the world. Before starting down the long road, he stands still and draws in the peaceful, after-storm calm.
A trio of deer wander silently as ghosts on a berm behind rain-drenched trees.
When he looks up, he sees a sliced moon through leafy branches.
Inhaling deeply, he breathes in the night air appreciatively and contemplates. In all of the busyness, a person can forget that there are times and places so wondrously still.
With that thought buoying his mind, Mick walks home through the night-dark woods.
“Oh, my God!” Emma’s hands fly to her panic-stricken face. “The tea kettle. We were waiting for it to boil when Mick got the call from Niall and we bolted,” she says over her shoulder, already halfway out the door. “I’ll be right back.”
She rushes down the ramp, arms pumping the pushrims on her chair as she barrels toward Austen cottage, grateful for the glow of the subtle walk lights along the way. The rhythmic slap of rubber wheels against the rain-soaked path is hard-pressed to keep pace with the pounding of Emma’s heart.
Fueled by hate, Jason transitions his heels over the edge of the horizontal surface. Without a rope, my only chance of reaching the bottom in one piece is to stay upright.
With his back against the sheer rock wall, he uses his heels for leverage, pulling closer, then lowers his legs over the side until his calves are against the cliff face.
He knows that gravity is going to work against him as he slides, gaining speed, to the bottom of the precipice. And with that knowledge, injured arm tucked tightly to the front of his torso, he shoves off.
It feels like someone’s tightening a vice-grip on my head and holding a hot iron to my thigh, Cynthia thinks. Through barely slit eyelids, she scans the dim room illuminated by a soft light over a door with a small window. Her gaze takes in a raised bedside table playing host to a short stack of individually wrapped clear plastic cups, a yellow pitcher, and a matching, kidney-shaped emesis basin. Next to the bed, two upholstered chairs stand sentinel, and a partially opened door reveals a handicap rail attached to the wall next to a toilet.
Her continued inspection drifts down, taking in her hands—fingers and wrists absent of jewelry—resting on top of a sterile white sheet, and a thin green blanket folded neatly over her legs. From an IV pole, a clear bag of fluid hangs half empty with a tube running to the inside of her right arm. A call button attached to the metal railing around the bed confirms that she’s in a hospital room.
“Where’s Emma?” Libby asks when she and Dr. Sutton enter the kitchen.
“She’ll be right back,” Fran says. “She remembered they left the tea kettle on in their hurry to get here.” Shifting her gaze from Libby’s tired face to Dr. Sutton’s, Fran asks, “Is Hemingway going to be okay?”
The vet nods. “Yes. With Libby’s help we got him cleaned and stitched up, and now he’s sleeping comfortably until the anesthesia wears off. He’ll be very sore for a while, but right as rain in a few weeks.”
Dr. Sutton turns to Libby. “Do you still have the Elizabethan collar from Hemingway’s last adventure?”
“Yes,” Libby confirms.
“When he wakes up, you’ll need to put it on him, so he’ll leave the dressings alone.”
“What’s an Elizabethan collar?” Fran asks, her brows scrunched.
Niall answers. “It looks like a big plastic funnel from his neck, outward, like a giant halo around his face. We called him ‘Bucket Head’ the last time he wore it. It kept him from getting at ointment he would have licked off otherwise.”
Turning to the vet, Niall says, “Hey, Doc, can I get you some coffee?”
“I thought you’d never ask. And are those biscuits I smell?”
“They sure are, let me get you a plate.”
“Libby,” Officer Chris says, patting the empty seat next to her, “I know you’re tired, but Herb and I need to ask you a few questions to get your perspective on the situation. We’ve already taken statements from Niall and Fran. We’ll try to keep it brief.”
“Okay. But first, is there any word from Mick?” she asks, looking at Niall.
Setting a frothy cup in front of both Libby and Herb, Niall says, “Mick called a while ago to let us know they’re keeping Cynthia overnight for observation. He’s catching a ride home with Skip. He said he’d fill us in on the details when he gets here.”
Through the steam of her cup, Libby watches Chris flip open her notebook as she prepares to take her statement.
Jason, a strong swimmer, holds his breath when he shoves off the ledge.
Then he hits the frigid water.
It feels like glass cutting into his skin when he cannons beneath the crashing waves. Jason knows better than to fight the descent. As the current pulls him deeper, his heartbeat stabs his chest.
Once the downward progression stops, he uses powerful scissor kicks to follow the barely discernible phosphorescent bubbles from his plunge, back up. He realizes, too late, that being fully dressed is working against him. When his head breaks the surface, he empties his lungs and draws in deep gulps of fresh air.
As he treads the churning water with one arm, he gets his bearings and makes a quick assessment. His entire body hurts like hell, but he doesn’t think anything’s broken. From the surveillance he’d done while he was supposed to be writing, Jason knows he has to head south and stay next to the cliff where it eventually gives way to a heavily wooded hill. I’ll climb that and cut across Pines & Quill using the darkness as cover to make my way down behind Thoreau cottage into the canyon.
Exhausted and in pain, Jason crosses a patch of sand, skirting boulders and low rocks. Nearing Pines & Quill, the route roughens. Boulders are larger in spots, spilling at length into the Bay. Not one to discourage easily, he smiles when he thinks about the bottle of Jack and the Beretta that are waiting for him in the backpack he’d stashed in the canyon cave yesterday.