All Through The House (27 page)

She had told him a lie. It wasn't okay. They wouldn't make
it. Not like this. If he couldn't help... But she refused to think about it.
Stopping, Megan treaded water, supporting his head and shoulders. She could
hear herself breathing in desperate gasps.

"I need your help," she said forcefully. "Are
you listening?"

An eternity seemed to pass, and then his head nodded,
rocking against her breast.

"I need you to float on your back, with your hands on
my shoulders. You have to keep your arms stiff. Can you do that?"

Again the pause, the achingly slow response. Again a nod.
She wondered if his thoughts were moving as slowly.

As he floated free, she kept her hand beneath his neck,
making sure he didn't swallow water. They changed position, his hands groping
blindly before finding her shoulders to grasp with frightening strength.

For just an instant his eyes opened. She could tell they
were light colored, his face was so close to hers. In their glazed depths she
saw the battle he fought to hold on. Her lips moved to reassure him again, but
the words died as his eyes closed.

She used the strong breaststroke that had won her a spot on
the U.S. Olympic team. Their passage was utterly quiet. Time seemed to have
begun and ended. It was a nightmare, her fear a part of the gathering dusk and
the bone-deep cold of the water. What if her strength gave out? Would she have
the courage to let him go, watch him slip into the dark tomb below?

The sound of a car passing on the lake road came to her,
then the muted call of an owl. She wondered if the man might have died, if his
fingers might be clenching her in a death grip. Then the rasp of a harsh breath
stilled that fear.

The point lay just ahead, like the back of a great beast
rising out of the lake. Megan strained her eyes to see, praying that she
wouldn't ram his head against a rock. Almost there, she thought. Almost there.
Dark water slapped over the man's face and he coughed weakly. He must have a
concussion at least, she thought.

Suddenly she became aware of the twin beams of headlights on
the road above, playing over the trees, the rocks, her car. She imagined the
driver, maybe even someone she knew, admiring the last hint of color above the
ridge, never guessing at the drama below in the dusk-shrouded cove. Only then,
just past the turnoff, there was a quick flicker of brake lights, a hesitation.
Oh, God, she thought in fresh panic, like a hunted animal. What if they had come
back in a car? It would be so easy for them to check the shore. There was
nowhere to hide. Beneath the water might still be a refuge for her, but for
him...impossible.

But then the car went on. Perhaps the driver had braked for
a curve, or had hesitated as he glanced at her Honda, wondering if somebody
might need help. Well, she needed help all right, but the road and any passing
drivers were beyond her reach.

"We're here," she said loudly, in a voice that
cracked. "You have to let go of me now."

One finger at a time, he obeyed. Megan slipped under him,
hugging him about the chest again as she felt for the rocks ahead with her free
hand. There. A scrape against her fingertips. Too steep. She turned to edge
along the shore. Her knee skinned against a rock as she scissor-kicked, but the
sting scarcely registered.

Suddenly the rock was flat and she braced herself with her
hand, pulling the weight of two bodies in. Laying his head on the rock, she
crawled out, grabbed him under the arms, and struggled to pull him higher out
of the water. He was impossibly heavy, dead weight. She was shaking all over
from cold and fear and exhaustion. But they had made it, she realized; she
could safely let him go. At last she crumpled beside him, half in, half out of
the water.

Megan began to think again when a spasm shook him. Could she
go for help? She was afraid to leave him alone. And afraid to stop any car that
passed. She had no idea what the men in the boat had looked like. What if she
led death right to him, after she had fought so hard for his life?

It was the first time she had ever rescued anybody away from
the beach, with its network of other lifeguards and a telephone that summoned
an ambulance within ten minutes. At the beach they would have strapped this man
to a backboard because of his head injury. But as another car drove slowly by
on the road above, Megan had become increasingly conscious of their
vulnerability. He was not a victim of an accident; somebody had tried to murder
this man. The two men on the boat would not be happy to discover they had
failed.

Megan sighed and pushed herself to a sitting position. Her
shakes had eased, only to be replaced by shivers. The elevation was high enough
here that nights were always cool, and the water in the deep, glacially formed
lake never warmed above frigid.

She reached out a hand to touch his shoulder and he groaned.

"Can you hear me?" She was almost whispering,
aware of the increasing darkness around them. "Do you think you can
walk?"

Silence, then he said in a thick voice, "Walk?"
There was a pause, during which she could sense his struggle to understand.
"Yeah," he said finally. "God, I have a headache."

"I can go for help," Megan said. "If...if
you'll be safe here."

A few seconds passed. "No." He rolled toward her, another
groan torn from his throat. "Help me up."

Somehow she got him to his feet, although her legs were
shaking again before they had taken even a step. He was taller, heavier, and
when he stumbled she had to wrap both arms around his waist to keep them from
falling. Stones cut into her bare feet and she wished she had taken the time to
find her clothes. Her wet T-shirt and underwear didn't provide any protection.
But it was too late now. At least he wore shoes along with sodden jeans and
some kind of thin shirt that clung to the hard muscles of his chest and arms.

In the water she had thought it was a nightmare, but this
was worse, far worse. The rocks she had so heedlessly slid down had to be
laboriously climbed. Their feet slipped, his weight nearly crumpling her. The
arm that lay across her shoulders felt like an iron bar, one that in normal
circumstances she could never have lifted. Perhaps she had become numb, because
she kept putting one bleeding foot in front of the other, kept hoisting and
dragging, holding him up when he staggered, murmuring directions and
encouragement.

"Up a little here. Watch out for that tree. Come on,
we're almost there. We're making it."

Unbelievably, they were. They had. The ground was level, the
car just ahead. They went around the end of the guardrail, instead of trying to
climb over it. Across the gravel turn-out. He had leaned heavily against the
car as she reached for the door handle when a horrifying thought hit her.

"My keys. Oh, my God!"

Had she put them in the pocket of her jeans? She couldn't
remember. When she wrenched open the door and the small roof light came on,
illuminating the key still dangling from the ignition, Megan sagged with the
most overwhelming relief she had ever felt. She could have made it back down
there, of course she could, but she wasn't sure how. Thank heaven for her
carelessness.

"A car's coming." His voice still sounded thick,
strained, but there was alarm in it.

"Get in," she said. "Hurry." She almost
pushed him as he fell in, then slammed the door and ran to her own side. They
had both slumped low in their seats by the time the headlights flashed over her
Civic. Megan didn't breathe until the other car had passed, the sound of the
engine diminishing.

Her hand trembled as she reached for the key and turned it.
The engine sprang instantly to life. Megan glanced at her passenger, expecting
to see his eyes closed, only to find him watching her. She was suddenly aware
of his presence in a new and slightly frightening way. He had been strong enough
to make it this far, when most men would have died. In the dim light from the
dashboard she could see that he was big, broad-shouldered, with a face made
harsh by pain. Water-darkened hair was plastered against his skull. There was
something in his eyes, a wariness, that made her wary in turn. Ordinary people
were not knocked unconscious and thrown overboard from a boat.

"Who are you?" he said. "Where are you taking
me?"

She swallowed. "I'm Megan Lovell. I... I'm in charge of
the public beach. I was on my way home and..." She stopped, bit her lip.
"I'm taking you to the hospital."

She could feel his tension in the silence that followed,
but suddenly he exhaled and let his head fall back against the seat's headrest.
His eyes had closed. "Okay," he said in a voice that had become more
slurred. "But don't tell them... Hell. That doesn't make sense."

"I don't understand. What doesn't make sense?"
Megan put the small car in gear. It lurched when she pressed with her bare foot
on the accelerator, but after a brief crunch of gravel they were on the road,
heading toward town. Only darkness showed in the rearview mirror. For the first
time in what seemed an eternity, she began to feel safe.

He didn't answer her directly. "What did you see?"

She told the truth. "I saw two men throw you out of the
boat."

He sounded even more distant, as though every word was an
effort. "Did you see...them?"

"You mean, to identify? No. But surely you did."

He didn't answer. When she tore her gaze from the road, it
was to discover that he had slid sideways, his head now resting against the
door. He looked as though he were asleep, but she knew better. Even in the
darkness she saw the blood that dripped down his forehead.

Praying under her breath, Megan stamped down harder on the
accelerator and the small car leaped eagerly into the curves. What if he was
paralyzed because she had made him walk? What if he died? She didn't even know
his name.

The medical clinic that maintained a few hospital beds was
mercifully on this side of town. She pulled right up to the brightly lit
emergency entrance.

Even before she had gotten out of the car, a nurse had
appeared, taken in the man's condition with one glance, and turned to snap
orders at an attendant who had started to follow her out. With relief Megan
recognized the nurse. She'd known Pam since third grade. Suddenly superfluous,
Megan hunched her shoulders, for the first time conscious of the wet T-shirt
and panties that had molded themselves into a second skin. Within minutes, her
passenger was on a gurney, blood pressure being checked as he was wheeled away.

When the nurse reappeared, she said, "What
happened?"

"I found him drowning in the lake," Megan said
acerbically. She pulled the T-shirt away from her breasts. "What's it look
like?"

Her friend raised a brow, looked Megan over from her
dripping hair to her bare legs, then said, "Good Lord, your feet! Stay
there. No, don't move."

Megan found herself stuffed into a wheelchair with her feet
immersed in a basin of something nasty that stung. The small blonde nurse
swabbed antiseptic on Megan's skinned knee and then taped a gauze bandage on
it.

"Why didn't you call an ambulance?"

"Because it didn't happen at the beach." Megan
hesitated only for a second. "Pam, some men dropped him out in the lake. Unconscious.
I think you'd better call the police."

Her friend sank back on her heels, staring at Megan.
"Are you sure?" She shook her head. "Never mind, you can explain
it to them."

While she waited for somebody to arrive from the sheriff’s
office, Megan accepted the offer of a towel and a pair of sacky green scrub
pants with a draw-cord waist and a matching top. Looking down at herself in the
new ensemble, she wrinkled her nose. Oh, well. At least she wasn't the next
thing to naked.

Megan knew almost everyone in the small town, so it was no
surprise to her that the deputy who showed up happened to be the father of a
boy she'd had a crush on in junior high.

She greeted him with relief. "Mr. Tevis. Or should I
say, Officer?"

"Pete's fine." The bony face below the graying
crewcut quirked into a smile. "Unless the uniform scares you off."

"No, I'm much too glad to see you." Behind the
deputy, Pam had emerged from the emergency room looking preoccupied. Megan said
quickly, "Is he...all right?"

"Still unconscious. Of course he has a concussion, so
that's not surprising. Did he talk to you?"

Megan nodded. "His voice was slurred, but he
seemed...well, rational."

Pam disappeared again. Pete Tevis pulled a plastic chair up
in front of Megan. His graying brows rose a little at the sight of the pinkish
solution in which her feet were immersed. "Blood?"

"I was barefoot."

"Okay, what's the story?"

She told him, as matter-of-factly as possible. He made notes
on his clipboard, then leaned back to look at her. "You're sure the boat
came from the marina?"

"I can't be positive, but I'm reasonably sure."

Without another word he stood and went behind the desk to
the telephone. She couldn't quite hear his end of the conversation but assumed
he had called Joe Carlson at the marina. When Pete came back, he was frowning.
"A couple of strangers did rent a boat late this afternoon. They've
returned it and gone. I'll follow up on the information they put on the rental
form, but it may be a pack of lies. And, of course, half the boats went out
today. May be a different pair altogether we're looking for."

Megan waited.

"You know anything about this fella you pulled out of
the water? Look familiar?"

He wasn't the kind of man you forgot. Megan shook her head.
"I've never seen him before. I don't know all the summer crowd, though. He
didn't tell me his name."

"Pam says there's no wallet in his pocket." Looking
thoughtful, he ran a hand over his crewcut. "Well, I imagine he'll be able
to tell me the whole story soon enough. I wouldn't mind having a chat with our
two strangers who took a trip down the lake, though." He levered his long
length up from the hard chair. "Well, I'll get on with it. And you should
be heading on home, drying your hair and having a hot cup of tea. You can feel
pretty good about what you did."