Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) (24 page)

The assassin’s position on the thirteenth hole’s elevated
tee handed him a distinct advantage. The developers had molded a giant manmade
dune—a virtual mountain on our pancake island—to reward golfers with a
panoramic vision of ocean and beach. Tonight it gave Kain’s henchman a killer
view of the twelfth green and Braden hunkered below. Braden curled his powerful
body into a compact target in an attempt to compensate for the cart’s
ineffective shield. He had few choices. If he wriggled beneath the cart, his
field of vision would narrow to zilch, and he’d lose all mobility. If he ran,
he’d be an easy target on the open fairway.

I had to distract the shooter. But how? The muzzle flash
suggested the assassin lay on his stomach, flattened on the tee. No profile,
nothing to aim at. The minute I fired a gun, I’d give away my position,
doubling options in the sniper’s shooting gallery: two ducks for the price of
one.

I had one advantage—knowledge of the geography. I’d played
this links course a hundred times. From the front and sides, the elevated tee
resembled a cliff. Golfers parked carts at the bottom and trudged up a flight
of stone stairs cut into its south face. But the grassy dune’s sloped back was
gradual enough for a riding mower to mount. Yet it would be sheer stupidity to
dash up the incline on foot—a suicidal cavalry charge lacking the romance of a
horse.
If I only had a mower.

Then came the “aha” moment. Horsepower aplenty sat a few
hundred feet away, locked inside the maintenance compound’s steel fence. All I
had to do was slip in and steal a mower.
Yeah, right.

The notion seemed lame-brained, but I couldn’t think of a
better one. I tiptoed out of the fairway shadows and into the rough, then
darted from skinny palm to fat water oak. In seconds, I reached the gate and
prayed some dunderhead had left it unlocked. Tonight a jumbo padlock proved a
perfect foil. I couldn’t pick it on a bet.

Damn. I eyed the fence again.
Okay, do you really need a
sergeant yelling at you to scale a little fence? Are you going to let Braden
die while you dawdle?

Reaching as high as I could on the twelve-foot chain link
fence, I stuck my fingers through steel loops. The toes of my shoes wedged
between chinks for footing.

I inched upward six feet. Then I lost my tenuous toehold and
gravity staked its claim, sucking my body down. The drop yanked my arms so hard
I thought they’d pop out of their sockets. Never mind how many pounds dangled
mid-air. For long seconds, I scrabbled like a big-footed puppy on a freshly
waxed floor. Then the toe of one shoe found traction. Harkening back to my
basic training days, I urged myself on with silent drill sergeant screams:
Move
your flabby ass. Don’t be a wuss.

Nearing the top, I tried a mighty heave-ho to roll to the
opposite side. A graceless belly flop impaled me on the fence’s crimped metal
ends. The mini daggers poked at me with cruel intimacy. I wrestled free and
dropped to the ground. Too hastily. My left ankle crumpled under my weight. I
tested it. Painful but functional.

Inside the fence, I stared with consternation at the
padlock. If I wanted to liberate a mower, I had to open the gate. I remembered
the head groundskeeper hung his spare keys on a pegboard. I found a match for
the padlock and swung the large gate open. The screech of metal assaulted my
ears. Had the killer heard?

Time to pick a steed. I scanned the metal carcasses
littering the landscape and marched toward the mowers. Then I saw the Bobcat. A
huge one. Perfect. I’d actually driven one of these suckers on field maneuvers.
Crank them up and they could boogie eight miles an hour, forward or backward.
The steel mesh wrapping the sides and back of the cab even provided a modicum
of shelter from flying bullets—if someone didn’t fire them head on.

Best of all, someone had outfitted this machine with a
trencher, designed to slice and dice rock-hard soil with merciless efficiency.
Its wicked, heavy-duty blades glistened under the green glow of the yard’s
fluorescent security lights. The blades attached to a five-foot boom. Could I
figure out how to raise and lower it? If so, I could impersonate a charging
rhino. That would spell distraction with a capital D.

Another gunshot pinged against metal. Don’t think, move. I
clambered onto the cold plastic seat and fumbled overhead, groping for the
ignition key. I sighed in relief when I felt it. One flick and the Cat purred.

I grasped the twin joysticks with a death grip.
Right
hand forward to go right. Push with the left to swing left
.
I rammed
both joysticks forward, a double whammy, and hit the gas. The cat bucked once
and rocketed straight at the open gate. It felt as if I were moving at eighty
miles an hour, not eight.
Here goes nothing.

Outside the fence opening, I careened past trees and
sideswiped a palm or two as I got the hang of the controls. The touch of a
gorilla.

The raucous engine broadcast my approach to the back of the
mounded tee. So much for a sneak attack. The sniper could track every foot of
my progress. If I ran the Bobcat dead up the hill, he could take his sweet time
as he aimed for my heart or head. Degree of difficulty for a marksman: zero.

Okay, let’s turn tail.
At the bottom of the incline,
I swiveled the Cat one hundred and eighty degrees then jerked hard on both
levers to scale the hill in reverse. I prayed the metal cab would deflect any
bullets. Of course screaming up the hill ass backward posed its own dangers.
The tee platform wasn’t large. Failure to stop in time meant I’d overshoot the
tee and plunge into the lagoon below. The backward motion seemed dizzyingly
fast and disorienting in my dark cage. I hadn’t heard another shot, but would I
over the Cat’s earsplitting racket?

The Bobcat lurched and I sensed I’d crested the hill. Now
came the tricky part. I eased off the gas as I swung the Bobcat and raised the
trencher boom. I squinted into the darkness, searching for movement, looking
for something to tell me the shooter’s position. He fired again. The flash
nailed his position. To my right, crouched. I thrust the right joystick forward
and lowered the trencher boom. A scream pierced the night.

My own scream melted into his. Gears ground but the Bobcat
refused to reverse. I had too much momentum. I plunged over the precipice.

***

“Marley…Marley.” The voice seemed distant but loud. The left
side of my body burned. Pain shot down from my hip and up from my ankle,
reaching a crescendo at my twisted knee. The stinging skin on my forearm made
we wonder if I’d been sandblasted. My head throbbed. I pried my eyelids open.
Braden knelt at my side. I blinked.

“Thank God,” he said. Realizing I’d rejoined the conscious
world, he tenderly pushed a curl off my forehead.

“What happened? Did you get the shooter?” I asked.

Braden chuckled. “No. You did. You saved my life. Which
makes it hard to be mad at you for being such a cowgirl. You nailed the sucker
just before your Bobcat crashed over the hill. The guy must have slipped. The
trencher blades sliced into the back of his neck. Severed his spinal cord. Dead
in a minute.”

I’d never killed anyone. Yet the only emotion I felt was
relief. Not one iota of remorse for the sadistic bastard who’d attacked Janie.
And tried to murder Braden.

“Was it Underling?” I shuddered at a mental picture of his
smashed nose and lecherous smirk.

“No. If Kain’s behind this, he found a new henchman to
parade as a psycho killer. Wonder what he pays—and where he finds them? Course
these guys don’t have much of a stretch to pose as psychos. The dead guy had a
pair of Janie’s panties tucked in his pocket as a souvenir.”

Noises uphill prompted me to lift my head. I lay sprawled
halfway down the steep embankment on the tee’s south side. The Bobcat rested
nose down at the bottom of the hill, just shy of the lagoon. I didn’t recollect
any attempt to parachute free. Yet somehow I’d been thrown clear.

I started to sit up. “Stay still,” Braden ordered. “The
paramedics are en route, and Bill O’Brien gave specific instructions you weren’t
to move.”

“I’m just woozy,” I protested. I shifted and winced as pain
pinballed with laser intensity through my limbs.

“Yeah, right,” said Braden. “You were out cold. This time
Bill insists—you’re going to the hospital. Forget any protest. I’m on his side.
The doctors need to keep you overnight for observation.”

Exhaustion sucked the fight right out of me. “What happened
to the other deputy? Talk about cowboys. You promised to call for backup.”

“If you’ll quit fidgeting, I’ll tell you.” Braden chuckled.
“I was approaching the maintenance shed when I heard a splash and climbed out
of the golf cart to investigate. I pulled my gun, took out my flashlight, and
spotted footprints in the soggy ground leading to the tee.

“That’s when our killer spotted me—a lone cop with a drawn
gun. He figured he had the drop on me. I kept waiting for back up, wondering
why it was taking so long. The cavalry galloped off to the golf clubhouse
instead of golf maintenance. Static bleeped out a key part of my message.”

Braden smiled. “You know the rest. I was plain lucky he
didn’t hit me. Felt the breeze from that first bullet. When your Bobcat roared
to life, I didn’t know what the hell was happening. You’re…amazing.”

A flashlight played over us. Braden stood and Bill O’Brien took
his place, squatting on his heels at my side. “My, my, I didn’t expect to see
you again tonight.” He added a tongue cluck for emphasis. “Lay still.”

He took my pulse. Next he played a visual
follow-the-bouncing-ball game with his penlight. Finally he probed my hip and
leg. I swore. He chuckled.

“Don’t think anything’s broken, though it’s not for want of
trying.” His fingers danced over my scalp. “You’re going to have one hell of a
goose egg.”

He looked at Braden. “How long was she unconscious?”

“A minute or two.”

The medic frowned. “Well, it’s off to the hospital with you.
I called and told the emergency room to expect another inbound. While I was at
it, I checked on Janie. She’s stabilized. Gonna be okay. Maybe you two can get
a group rate.”

I twisted to lever myself upright and Bill pinned my
shoulder with an extra-large paw. “Oh no you don’t.” He yelled for a litter.
That’s when I wished I hadn’t been packing away so many desserts. I’d heard
these guys at the firehouse grousing about lifting island chubbos. I wasn’t
anxious to take the heat for someone’s hernia.

Braden touched my cheek. “Marley, I’ll head to the hospital
soon as I can. Meanwhile, rest easy. It’ll be over soon. I found a note in the
dead guy’s pocket. It read ‘five a.m., Mad Inlet.’ Our guess is a rendezvous
with a getaway boat. I’ll keep his date. We need to grab one of these suckers
alive. Get someone to talk.”

After regaining consciousness, I’d been giddy with relief to
find Braden alive. Now dread tightened my throat.

I can’t take another funeral, another lover’s body
moldering underground.

Stop it.

I kept my tone light. “Hope you have someone covering your
backside.”

“Yep.” He kissed me. It wasn’t some prudish
thank-you-for-saving-my-life smooch. Not very professional, but necessary. For
both our psyches.

Bill whooped with delight. “Now I have a tale to tell. The
boys at the firehouse are always interested in hearing about the latest island
romance.”

“Stuff it,” I said as Bill and his buddy hoisted my litter
in the air.

“Jeez, how much do you weigh, Marley?” Bill parried with an
exaggerated puff.

“I lift weights,” I said deadpan. “It’s all muscle.”

“That’s my girl.” Braden chuckled. “Weighty but well-toned.”

I opened my eyes to a sea of white.
Where am I?

I felt the irritating starch of hospital sheets, and my
fingers explored the smooth, cold bed rail. The sun pumped light into the room
despite the drawn blinds.
Must be morning.

I rolled my head to the other side of my pillow. Janie,
Braden, and April popped into view. Any more people and it’d be standing room
only. Janie’s sister was the only non-sleeping member of the trio. She’d draped
her long shapely legs over the side of a spine-bending visitor’s chair and
looked almost comfortable with her pretzel impersonation. She winked, nodded at
Janie, and threw me a triumphant thumbs-up. We both grinned. Janie snored
softly. Her color had returned to a healthy pink, and her face looked almost
angelic. No trace of the frenzied lady who pummeled me with her fists.

Braden’s head was cocked at a neck-wrenching angle, but he
slept, too. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. Otherwise he appeared none the
worse for wear. In fact, the emerging stubble looked sexy, a dash of Miami Vice
to flavor his rough-and-tumble good looks.

Thank God. They’re both alive.

I fumbled for my watch on the bedside table, and noticed
Braden’s wallet, lying open. His young sons grinned at me. Was he studying
their photos before he fell asleep, using the hospital’s tepid nightlights to
memorize their happy faces? My watch clattered to the floor and woke Braden.
Fortunately, Janie kept snoring.

“Am I glad to see you,” I whispered. “Everything went okay
last night?”

He stood and leaned over my bed. He cupped my chin in his
hand, and for a moment simply looked into my eyes. “Yeah. Good news.” He kissed
my forehead. “We caught Hugh red-handed. And the sheriff arrested Gator and
Sally. I’ll tell you everything but let’s not wake sleeping beauty.” He nodded
toward Janie and awarded April a brief smile.

“I’ll get a wheelchair and take you for a spin.”

“I don’t need a wheelchair.” I flopped my legs over the side
of the bed and prepared to stand.

“You know that, and I know that,” he answered as he ran a
playful finger down the drafty opening at the back of my hospital gown. “But it
never pays to piss off a nurse. Besides I might get turned on if I walk behind
you. Your bare ass hanging out for all to see, just asking to be grabbed.”

He dashed off before I could clobber him. His absence gave
me an opportunity to peek under the hem of my hospital sackcloth.
Holy
Toledo
.
My leg and side looked like a Jackson Pollack painting—massive blotches of
purple shot through with a vile green. I twisted my arm to bring my elbow into
view. More colors—bright red scrapes with contrasting brown scabs. I licked my
dry and cracked lips.

Oh my, I’m SO sexy.

When Braden returned with a wheelchair, I eased onto the
leather seat, more interested in hearing his story than winning a fight. We
waved goodbye to April, and Braden rolled me down the hall to a tiny chapel.
“It’s empty,” he said. “I checked.”

“You said you caught Hugh. Did he confess? What about Kain?”

Braden didn’t answer. The hospital setting apparently gave
him an itch to play doctor, and the deputy concentrated on parts of my anatomy
Dr. Danner had totally ignored.
Now this is my idea of physical therapy.
Yet I forced myself to swat his industrious hands away.

“No fair,” I protested. “You brought me here under false
pretenses. Talk. Besides I’m not sure I feel comfortable playing kissy-face in
a chapel.”

“God is love,” Braden murmured, his hands clasped in a
prayerful pose.

“Come on. Tell me what happened. Don’t tease.”

Braden twirled one of the chapel’s padded folding chairs
around and straddled it. “Okay, okay. I must say you’re a rather testy
patient.”

He kept his story short and sweet. In fact, I had to beg for
every tidbit. Maybe he felt uncomfortable telling a story in which he starred
as hero. Or perhaps he didn’t want my heart to fibrillate over dangers past. At
any rate, I finally wrenched a barebones synopsis out of him.

To disguise himself for the rendezvous, Braden donned a
maintenance uniform and pulled a cap over his buzz cut. Then he’d skulked in
the riprap shadows at the marshy intersection of Dear Island and Mad Inlet. A
few minutes before five, a boat coughed to life and chugged down Dear’s manmade
canal. When the skiff reached the inlet, the driver cut the engine and floated
in the shallows. Figuring that was his cue, Braden hunched over to shrink his
silhouette to the dead guy’s height and splashed ahead.

“I heard a voice say, ‘Hurry up, will ya? We have to get out
of here.’ I couldn’t believe our luck. Our water taxi driver turned out to be
Hugh. By the time he realized I’d taken the place of Asshole Assassin, it was
too late. The sheriff and Chief Dixon roared in like a Coast Guard SWAT team
making a million-dollar drug bust.

“Unfortunately the idiot ignored the sheriff’s order to put
up his hands,” he added. “When Hugh reached in his jacket, Conroy shot him.
He’s alive but in a coma. They took him to Charleston for surgery.”

No real need to ask my next question. If Kain were in jail,
Braden would have led with the headline. “You said you arrested Gator and
Sally. What about Kain?”

Braden frowned. “Gone. His house was empty. The sheriff
found nothing—until he looked in the freezer. Your Mr. Underling was inside, a
bullet hole in place of his left eye. Kain wrapped butcher paper around the
head and printed a note: ‘One Polesicle. Employees should aim to please.’ Guess
he was unhappy his hit man missed you.”

Bile rose in my throat. “He killed his own man? And left him
where it would incriminate him? That makes no sense. He’s been super careful to
make sure evidence points away from him.”

Braden shrugged. “We figure he’s disappeared for good—at
least in his Kain Dzandrek incarnation. Gator and Sally were no help. Lawyered
up and didn’t admit a thing. Said they’d never met anyone named Kain.

“Sheriff Conroy wants Kain real bad. We heard a man fitting
his description chartered a private jet to Miami. Conroy must have made twenty
calls to friends in Florida. And, just in case that plane was a decoy, he
phoned every law enforcement buddy up and down I-95. He has folks looking high
and low, covering boats, airports, train stations. No one has a clue.”

I read the verdict in his face. “You don’t expect anyone to
find him, do you?”

“No. He probably called in some chips of his own. It’s tough
to catch homegrown mobsters, especially rich ones. With Kain’s international
connections, it’s worse. From Miami, he could have flown anywhere in a private
jet. He could be drinking vodka martinis in Chechnya or Uzbekistan.”

I hesitated to ask my last question—unsure I wanted an
answer. “Will Kain come back?”

“Not if he’s smart. Looks like he had a big operation. In
all probability Dear was one of several money-laundering options. He can afford
to leave some money on the table. I think it’s safe to say we’ve seen the last
of that monster.”

Neither of us spoke for a minute. Braden sighed, and I
reached out to touch his cheek. The bristles were softer than I expected.

“Thank you,” I said softly. “I know you’re exhausted. The
last thing you needed was to doze in a hospital chair. Why don’t we see about
springing me? Who knows, maybe we can engage in some physical therapy—the
mutual kind?”

“Now you’re talking.” A slow smile rekindled the warmth in
his eyes.

***

At the nurse’s station, we badgered a young woman into
phoning Dr. Ernie Danner. He was not only ex-Army, but the big brother of my
Beaufort-bred friend Brenda. Small-town living has its privileges, and despite
the county’s rapid expansion, Beaufort still functioned as an upscale village.
I unabashedly exploited my connections.

It was early Sunday morning, and the hospital was as quiet
as a morgue. That made Janie’s scream sound like a tornado-warning siren.

Braden drew his gun, and I kicked aside my wheelchair for a
sprint to her room. A trailing nurse came in dead last in our heat.

As we burst through the door, I scanned the room for danger.
The stark white cubicle offered no hiding places for a new hit man. Janie and
April were the sole occupants.

Sobs racked Janie’s body.

Her sister rhythmically patted her back. “You’re okay,
Janie. You’re okay.”

When my neighbor looked up and saw Braden and me, her agitation
intensified. “He tried to kill me. Did you catch him? Oh please tell me you
caught him. And Gator—that pile of manure—he lent him my spare set of keys.”

Realizing her patient was in no immediate danger, the nurse
turned a withering scowl on Braden and his gun. “You should all leave.” She
wrestled a blood pressure cuff on her patient. “She doesn’t need this
excitement.”

Braden peered at her nametag. “Ms. Johnson,” he began, his
tone even icier than the nurse’s. “This is police business. We’ll leave if a
doctor
tells us to.”

He turned to Janie, and his voice softened. “You can stop
worrying. Your attacker’s dead. Marley made sure he won’t hurt anyone ever
again. Gator and Sally are in jail, and Hugh’s in a coma, locked in a prison
hospital ward.”

Nurse Johnson glared at us while she timed her patient’s
pulse.

“Thank God,” Janie muttered with an involuntary shudder.

Braden eyed her carefully. “You up to telling us what
happened? Or do you want to rest? This can wait.”

Janie shook off the nurse. “I want to talk.” She bit off her
words as she pushed herself upright. “I know I should have returned your call,
Marley, but I figured it’d be almost as quick to drive to your house. That
cocksucker was hiding in the back seat of my car. He put a gun to my head and told
me to drive to the golf maintenance shed. Once the car was hidden by the
building, he clubbed me.” She cast a surly look at the nurse. “How do you crank
this bed up? I want to sit.”

Miffed at her rebellious patient, the nurse plunked the
motorized control in Janie’s hand, turned on her heel and stomped out. “I’ll
give you five minutes,” she called over her shoulder.

Janie took a deep breath. “When I came to, it was dark. I
was naked, tied to my own bed, and scared spitless. He told me I had a choice.
I could drink some nasty concoction or he’d slit my throat. The miscreant said
he’d prefer the latter. The way he licked his lips, I believed him.

“So I drank the crap. He’d poured it into my ‘I may rise,
but I refuse to shine’ mug. It tasted like boiled manure. It was so hot I
scalded my throat.”

She swallowed hard and pulled the blankets tighter around
her.

April interrupted. “Sis, you don’t need to talk about this.
It’s upsetting you.”

“Upsetting me?” she exploded. “Talking about it is nothing.
I can still see his freakin’ yellow teeth, grinning while he tightened the
scarves around my wrists and stared at my boobs. I kept asking what he wanted,
what he was doing. He just smiled.”

She shuddered. I walked to the bed and squeezed her hand.
When she looked up, her face communicated rage and terror. The kind that washes
over you in uncontrollable tremors after you realize that tractor-trailer
missed flattening you by an inch.

“I was certain he’d rape me. All I could think about was
staying alive.” She spoke in little more than a whisper. “Once I was bound, he
took out a knife. He slid it over my skin like he was imagining carving me up.
He kept smiling. Oh, man, he enjoyed me being helpless. I’m glad he’s dead.”

Janie stopped. She gave her head a tiny shake as if that
might dislodge her hellish memories. “I’m not sure what happened after that.
It’s muddled. Next thing I remember is waking here, and April saying, ‘You’re
okay. No one can hurt you.’ Then some doctor took my pulse and told me I was a
lucky, young lady. I thought ‘yeah, right.’ But I guess I am.”

When she paused, April poured her some water. “Sis, come
stay with me for a few days. My manager can run the club. Hell, it runs itself.
I’ll keep you company.”

She gave her sister a wan smile. “Why not?”

Perhaps it was Janie’s window-rattling scream or maybe it
was Braden’s fast draw with a gun, but the staff at Beaufort Memorial seemed
eager to expel us. Dr. Danner gave a special dispensation to hasten our
departure. Of course, we still had to sign stacks of disclaimers reproduced in
seven-point-type.

Midway through the paperwork, Janie let out another
anguished yelp. “Oh my God. I just remembered my attacker booted Pussy outside.
She must be frantic. I have to get to Dear.”

“No you don’t,” I said. “Go home with April. We’ll find
Pussy and take care of her.”

“That’s a promise,” Braden added. “Let April look after you.
The sheriff’s going to need an official statement, and the logistics will be
easier if you’re not marooned on Dear.”

He paused a beat. “I do have one question though, why did
Kain decide you needed killing?”

Janie barked a short laugh. “I was so intent on snooping it
never dawned on me that someone might poke around
my
office. I’d doodled
questions about Kain, Gator and Sally. Drew little arrows between victims and
my suspects. And I made a list of real estate documents to dredge up and study.
Gator found the notes tucked under my blotter. He wasn’t amused.

“The creep who attacked me did pass along my boss’s
regrets,” she added. “I hope Gator rots in jail. I’ll send the bastard notes
once a month, saying how I
regret
that he’s a slimy son of a bitch and
that Ralph Lauren doesn’t do prison stripes.”

Braden’s question prompted one of my own. “You told me Kain
paid off Hugh’s gambling debt in exchange for ammunition to blackmail Sally and
Gator. What terrible secrets did Hugh know about your bosses?”