Cut Off His Tale: A Hollis Grant Mystery (19 page)

An artist might have cast the doctor's face in bronze. She said nothing.

“I should also tell you I've checked out the fanciful tale you told me to explain why you've been preoccupied. Statistically, the unexplained deaths have been no different this year. In fact, there have been fewer deaths this year than last. I can't imagine why you told me such a cock and bull story, but I intend to learn the truth about whatever it is you're hiding.”

Dr. Uiska straightened in her chair. Her face no longer resembled a mask. Instead, fury tightened her sharp features and narrowed her eyes. “You may think you can threaten me, but I had nothing to do with the murder. Dig away. I'm not concealing anything.”

“We'll see. It would save time and money if you'd tell me why you were there. If it has nothing to do with the murder, that's great. If it's some sordid little tale, and they usually are, I've heard them all. I don't care what it is if it has nothing to do with the murder. I'm here to identify Robertson's killer.”

“I didn't kill him, and I have nothing more to say. And if you plan another session like this, I'll bring my lawyer. You're harassing me. I'm a law-abiding citizen, and I don't have to tolerate this treatment.”

“I think you're deliberately lying. I
will
discover what you're hiding. Call me when you decide to tell the truth.”

Following the Wednesday evening visition, Hollis recognized how exhausted she was and, after walking MacTee, fell into bed hoping a good sleep would restore her. But sleep eluded her. Instead, Sally's scene at the funeral home looped endlessly. Bitterly, she thought of Paul and his love for drama. She wondered how he would have felt about Sally's public confession. Now she, not Paul, would have to live with people looking at her and wondering how she was taking it. How would she cope? The way she always did: she'd keep “a stiff upper lip” and rely on good old British reserve to get her through. She'd never refer to what had happened and hope everyone else got her message. The loop repeated again and again, but finally she fell asleep.

The next morning as she lay in bed listening to rain pinging on the metal porch roof under her bedroom window, Hollis decided that the best way to push thoughts of Paul and Sally out of her mind was to run. It didn't matter that it was raining. Running in the rain was like meditation. The repetitive motions, the focus on breathing, the duality of a world above and a world reflected in the puddles.

Navy waterproof jogging clothes took seconds to pull on. She reminded herself to remember when she returned from her run to tell Detective Simpson about the discovery she'd made the previous evening.

Her thoughts turned to Mary Beth Cardwell, and she tried
to imagine what Paul had read in the woman's files. In the middle of tying a shoelace, Hollis stopped as if a giant had clamped his hand on hers.

Blackmail.

The killer
knew
Paul held incriminating evidence about his past, because Paul had used the information to gain leverage over him—leverage for blackmail. Far-fetched, but, after the things she'd found out about Paul,
nothing
would surprise her. Enough. For the next hour, she'd try to forget about the murder and focus on emptying her mind and achieving a zen state of oneness with nature.

In the kitchen, she enjoyed the silence. Elsie had apologized for leaving her alone, explaining she'd committed Thursdays to caring for her grandson. It seemed ungrateful for Hollis to confess that she relished the idea of having the empty house to herself. Instead, she assured Elsie she'd miss her cheery presence but would be fine.

She set the alarm system, locked the door and paused on the porch to inhale the intoxicating smells of spring. MacTee's steady pull on his leash reminded her to move, to load him in the truck and drive to the Experimental Farm. There, she parked in her usual spot and considered what a creature of habit she was. Most mornings, give or take a few minutes, she stopped here and ran the same course. She remembered reading that if each person was forced to contemplate every one of the thousands of daily decisions making life work, the everyday world would grind to a halt.

Enough.

She shifted her mind into neutral and her feet into gear.

Her steady pace carried her along the track, and the repetitive action lulled her into a near hypnotic state. Two miles into the run, she reached a small green garage nestled
beside a large yellow barn.

Just after she passed these landmarks, she heard a sharp report and sensed more than felt something whistle past her ear. Jarred out of her trance, she searched for a rational explanation.

Birds? In the spring, red-winged black birds dive-bombed runners who infringed on their territory. But those birds lived in the swamp at the other end of the farm. And it wasn't meadowlarks, they flew erratically trying to draw you away from their nests.

Searing pain in her right thigh followed a second crack. Her body, on automatic, continued to move but, glancing down, she registered a jagged rip in her track pants.

A bullet hole!

Not possible. Her legs continued to pump.

A third crack.

The puddle ahead of her fractured and erupted upward.

She whirled. A black slicker-clad figure, arms raised and sighting along what must be a rifle, stood silhouetted against the yellow barn.

MacTee, ambling along far behind her, was a perfect target.

“Come! MacTee, come!” she shrieked.

Alerted by the urgency of her screams, MacTee raced to catch up with her. Together, they galloped away from the terrifying figure.

Oh, God. Could they run fast enough?

Lead weighted her legs. Ignore the heaviness. Faster. Run for her life.

Another shot. Was it louder? Closer?

Run faster. Don't stumble. Don't fall. Racking sobs. Other people—the safety of numbers.

Carleton University. There it was. A safe refuge. Across two
fields, a busy highway and the Rideau Canal.

Her leg throbbed.

Ignore it. Get away.

The highway loomed.

No time to stop. A space between a red and white city bus and an eighteen wheeler.

They threw themselves forward.

The world filled with noise.

A heart stopping blast from an air horn, the screaming protest of brakes and the hiss of huge tires on wet pavement wrapped her in terror before the impact lifted and flung her over the road.

Ice cold water splashed in her face, her mouth, her nose.

“Jesus Christ, is she dead?”

Hollis tried to lift her head.

A hand gripped her left arm. “Well, we better drag her out of the goddam ditch or she'll drown, if she ain't dead already.”

Her eyes opened. A pair of work boots planted in the muck above her hand shifted and mud squished around them.

She whispered, “I'm not dead.”

The boots paid no attention. Large warm hands dragged her out of the water and up the bank.

“If her back broke or anything, you shouldn't touch her. You could make her a paraplegic.”

“Listen, Mr. Know-It-All, if I leave her face down in the ditch, she'll drown whether she's a goddam paraplegic or not.”

Hollis tried again. “I'm okay. I think the truck blew me away.” Her comment struck her as funny, and she giggled.

“Jesus Christ,” the boots said. “She's fucking crazy. She's laughing, for Chrissakes. Lady, I don't know why the hell you and your goddam dog decided to run in front of me, but it sure as hell is no fucking laughing . . .”

MacTee. Where was he?

She angled her head until she saw the man's face.

“The dog, what happened to my dog?” She gathered herself together and staggered to her feet. Afraid to and afraid not to, she risked a glance in the ditch.

No dog.

The highway. Cars had pulled off. People climbed out, slammed doors and peered toward her. Nothing like an accident to collect a crowd.

No dog.

Where was he?

There. Alive and well.

MacTee, ever the opportunist, leaned on a woman in a tan Burberry raincoat and red rubber boots who patted him as she, along with the other spectators, stared at Hollis.

Explanation time.

As she climbed shakily to her feet, she considered telling the trucker she'd been running because a killer had shot at her. Impossible. He already thought she was crazy.

“I'm sorry. I misjudged the speed. Thank goodness you stopped. I hope nothing in your rig was damaged?”

“Jesus Christ, lady, that really takes the cake.” With his hands on his thighs, he bent forward to emphasize his point. “You scare the shit out of me and tell me you didn't figure out how fast I was driving. It's a damn good thing it's raining and I was going slow.” A shake of his head released the raindrops gathered on the brim of his Stetson. “I'd suggest in future,” he spoke belligerently, “in future, you cross on the green light.” Hollis sensed he'd like to belt her one.

She realized she'd scared him, but he needn't be so damn macho about it. “I'm sorry. If anything's wrong with your truck or anything broke inside because you had to stop fast—I'd
be glad to pay for it. Do you have a card?”

“Lady, I don't want nothing else to do with you. You're not only nuts—you're a bloody menace. You should be locked up.” The trucker stalked to the cab of his truck. The crowd, except for the woman grasping MacTee, seeing the show was over, drifted to their cars.

Hollis collected MacTee. “Thanks. I feel stupid for causing all this trouble.”

The woman studied her. “I saw you running like the hounds of hell were after you. Are you really okay?”

“No.” Her lower lip trembled, and she bit down to stop the palsy. “Do you have a cell phone?'

When the woman nodded, Hollis glanced back the way she'd come. Was the man in the black raincoat following her?

There was no one on the road.

She had time for the woman to call, but whose number to punch in? 911. Since childhood her mother had drilled into her to demand help only in a real emergency. Did having a stranger take pot shots at you qualify? Probably, but did she want a cast of thousands—fire trucks, emergency vehicles, police, sirens?

She felt obliged to tell Simpson as quickly as possible, but she hadn't memorized her number. How to contact her? She'd ask the woman to phone Tessa and Kas and tell whoever answered to call Simpson. After they reached her, either one could pick her up at Carleton and either one could do something about her leg.

If neither was home she'd have to move to plan B—and ask the woman to phone the Ottawa Police.

“I'm headed to Carleton, but if you'd phone the number of my friends who live nearby, and ask whoever answers to collect me at the university student centre I'd appreciate it. And would you tell whoever it is to phone Rhona Simpson and say
I've had an . . .” she paused for a moment, “an accident and must talk to her right away.”

The woman surveyed her, starting with her filthy hair and ending with her wet muddy shoes. “You're as white as can be and your voice is funny. I think you're in shock.” She bent and pointed to Hollis's pant leg. “That's blood.”

A moment of panic. Maybe she was bleeding to death. A quick glance. “I must have landed on something sharp in the ditch. I'm sure it's nothing serious.” She loosened her deathlike grip on MacTee's leash and snapped it on his collar. “Really, I'll be fine.”

Reluctantly, the woman relinquished MacTee and walked to her car to use the phone.

With the dog leashed and leaning against her, Hollis waited until she received the high sign indicating the call had gone through. She checked again to make sure the track coming from the farm was empty before she scurried along the verge of the highway. The gunman would have figured out where she was going, and he'd be on his way—she had to hurry.

She ignored the throbbing leg and loped toward the slippery walkway over the canal. Once there, she stepped cautiously on the rain-washed wood. MacTee, always a coward about heights, flattened on his belly and refused to move.

“MacTee. A biscuit. I'll give you a biscuit,” she pleaded dragging on his leash.

Reluctantly, he edged along the narrow walkway. On the far side he expected his reward and waited, eyes bright and tongue lolling.

“Later, I'll give it to you later,” she promised and felt guilty as she hauled him across the road to the student union building.

A wave of exhaustion slowed her.

Had she lost quarts of blood? Was she going to collapse and
die? Stupid idea. No one could run, be knocked in a ditch, and continue running if she were bleeding to death.

After the early morning conference, Rhona listened to her messages. Dr. Yantha had called half an hour earlier and said Rhona should come immediately to the doctor's house because Hollis had had an accident.

An accident? At Yantha's. Why wasn't Hollis at the hospital? As Rhona reached for the phone book and turned to the Ys, the phone rang.