Seeds of Evidence (9781426770838) (16 page)

By 4:00 p.m., they had gone over all the accumulated evidence in her case. Chris had helped her identify some leads to pursue. He questioned basing a case on such a tenuous link as acorns. He thought she was grabbing at straws.

When she got up to fix another pot of coffee, he stood up and stretched. She spooned the grounds into the filter, poured water from the carafe into the reservoir, and flipped the switch. What could she do to convince him her case was worth pursuing? Perhaps even more importantly, what if she was wrong? Could she afford another black mark? Another allegation that she was intractable? Not a team player?

But the image of the beach child's body lying on the sand, and the thoughts of the mother who might be missing him, stirred her heart. She couldn't give up, not yet, anyway.

Chris stood at the French doors looking out over the channel.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Kit's head had been throbbing all afternoon, and she'd guessed the weather was changing. “Is a storm coming?”

“I think so.”

She opened the door, and the two agents stepped out onto her deck.

Indeed, dark clouds were gathering in the west. Looking east, out over the water, she could see two small fishing boats making their way back toward port. A couple of jet skis, water spraying up like rooster tails behind them, sported in the channel. Far across the water, she saw a lone kayaker.

“He'd better get in,” she said.

“You sound like you've had experience,” Chris said, laughing.

“I got caught in a storm out there once, when I was a teenager. It's not something I want to repeat.” The memory came back easily enough. “I'd been over to Tom's Cove, down there,” she pointed generally southeast, “looking for shells with an island boy. We saw the clouds building, but he'd thought he could make it back to Chincoteague. Halfway across the channel, the skies opened up.” Even now, she could remember her fear. “It was terrifying. I saw flashes of lightning, streaks of lightning, and balls of lightning, in white, pink, and blue—more varieties than I knew existed.”

“Wow.” Chris turned and looked west.

“I saw lightning strike the water and the land. Then I saw a transformer on the island explode. Here we were, in a metal boat! By the time we reached the dock, I was shaking.”

“I guess you never went out on the water with him again!” Chris laughed.

“You are so right!” Kit shook her head.

“Thunderstorms still amaze me. In Southern California, we don't have them, not often anyway,” Chris said.

Another rumble of thunder and the first drops of rain drove them inside. They sat down again at the table. “Tell me more about the agricultural workers on the peninsula,” Chris said.

“There are the migrants and the permanent workers. The permanent workers generally work in the poultry processing plants, keeping the broilers, fryers, and roasters moving. They're supporting families back home. Housing is their biggest problem: they double or triple up . . . sometimes even sleep in shifts.”

“Do any of them bring their families?”

“Some. And people complain, but the kids honestly often turn out to be as hard-working at school as their parents are on the job.”

“And migrants?”

“That's a different story. Migrants never stay in one place long enough to impact the schools or most other community services, so there aren't as many complaints about them.”

“People are just happy to eat the produce they pick.”

“Right.”

A sharp crack of thunder made them both look toward the water. Lightning flashed, then the heavens opened up and sheets of water began dropping from the skies. Then the power failed, and the cottage's lights went out. “My battery's low,” Kit said, shutting the lid of her laptop.

“Guess it's time for a break.” Chris moved toward the French doors. He raised his glass, took a drink, and lowered it. “What's that?”

“What?” Kit joined him. She thought she saw something off in the distance, but the rain pelting down obscured it. The jet skis were gone, and so were the small boats, and all the birds had disappeared as well, taking cover from the deluge.

She heard clicking on the windows and roof of the house.

“Hail!” Chris said. “Look at that!”

Dime-sized hail collected on the deck. Wind whipped the flag on the dock next door. She could hear it snapping even through the glass. The trees and bushes were shaking back and forth in mad fury, their leaves turned upside down.

Then the storm turned the world into a gray, seamless sheet, making it impossible to tell where water ended and sky began. The storm was beating the water out of the marshes, driving toward Assateague, flattening the marsh grass, the rain and the hail and the wind roaring.

A flash of movement caught Kit's eye. As quickly as her mind registered it, the movement disappeared. “Did you see that?”

“Somebody's out there!”

Thunder rumbled. Kit felt it in her chest. She shivered. She retrieved her binoculars from the bookshelves and lifted them to her eyes. “Tell me if you see it again.” She alternated looking with her own eyes and through the binoculars, peering into the gray sheet. Then—a flash of yellow. In an instant, she recognized it: “the kayaker!”

“That can't be safe.”

The kayaker was out on the channel! Alarm gripped her. All that lightning. And he was working against the wind. “Why doesn't he just let the storm drive him toward Assateague? At least he'd be on land.”

“He got caught out there.”

“He should have come in sooner!” Kit lifted her binoculars to her eyes again but the person had disappeared into the gray once more. “He must be inexperienced.”

“What can we do?”

“I don't know. My neighbor has a small boat . . . I hate the thought of going out right now.”

“Should we call 911? Is there a rescue squad on the island?”

“Yes.” Kit raised her binoculars again. Just then, she heard a tremendous crack, and a sizzle as lightning struck the marsh not far from where the kayaker emerged from the gray. In the blinding light, she recognized him. Kit took a sharp breath. “David!”

“Who?”

Kit threw the binoculars down, the look on David's face emblazoned in her mind. “I've got to help him.” She grabbed her lifejacket and ran out of the door. “Call 911!”

T
HE RAIN AND HAIL FELT LIKE NEEDLES PELTING HER SKIN
. T
HE STORM
sounded so loud! She slipped on some hail, righted herself, and ran across the lawn and onto the neighbor's pier. The end of the dock held a horseshoe life preserver on a long rope. Kit grabbed it, and threw it out onto the water. The wind immediately drove the preserver out into the channel, taking it to the end of the length of its rope. “David! David!” Kit screamed, but the wind whipped her voice away.

Out on the channel, the little kayak bobbed and nodded, tossed by the waves. David kept stabbing at the water, first on one side, then on the other. But Kit could see him faltering, missing strokes. Then the thunder rolled again, and a flash of lightning turned the gray world white. She jumped into the small boat. She wiped the rain out of her eyes, pulled the starter cord sharply, and the small outboard engine flared into life.

Just as quickly, the engine sputtered and died out. “C'mon!” Kit said, jerking the cord again and again. The motor refused to start. The rain plastered down her hair and it ran over her face. She wiped her eyes. David was about fifty feet from the bright yellow-orange horseshoe shaped life preserver. She yelled to him again, but thunder drowned out her voice. She saw him
paddling furiously. Then, as she watched, a gust of wind jerked the paddle from his hand. He reached for it, the kayak capsized, and he began flailing about in the water.

She had no choice. She grabbed the flotation cushions from the boat and jumped into the water, her years as a lifeguard automatically guiding her actions. The water felt rough and cold and the current wanted to tug her downstream. As she got into her sidestroke, waves kept breaking erratically over her. At times, she turned her head hard to breathe, only to get a face full of water.

Spit, breathe, stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe, stroke, stroke, stroke . . . Kit pulled herself through the water, ignoring the lightning, ignoring the thunder, her mind and heart set on one goal: David.

She reached him just as he rolled onto his back, exhausted. “David!”

His eyes flew open and he turned to look at her.

“Come on!” she said. She handed him a flotation cushion, grabbed his life jacket, and began pulling him toward the life preserver and the rope, her breath coming hard. They reached it just as another bolt of lightning split the sky.

The storm was moving east. Already the rain had begun slowing down. She could see land now. “Pull yourself to shore,” Kit yelled. A wave smacked David in the face and he came up sputtering. “Go!”

He reached forward, grabbed the rope, and pulled. Water sluiced off his shoulders. His hair looked shiny and dark, his muscles taut. Kit stayed right behind him. She could see something was wrong. David was using his left hand on the rope just to hold himself in place while he reached forward with his right and pulled himself forward. A couple of times, he almost lost his grip. The scar from his gunshot wound was bright red.

Several times, she wondered if they'd make it. The storm had begun to move past but the rain was still heavy. Then she looked up and saw flashing lights. Chris had called the rescue squad.

“Just hold on, David! They'll pull you in!”

Chris had grabbed the line attached to the horseshoe collar ring. He pulled it. Two rescue squadsmen joined him.

David rolled onto his back, hanging on with his right hand. When he finally reached the dock, hands reached down to grab him. Kit heard him yell when they pulled him up by his arms.

By the time Kit joined him, David was on his knees, throwing up salt water.

“That kid,” David said, gasping through heaves, “he was dead . . . before he hit . . . the water, right?”

“Right.” She was breathless, her lungs burning from exertion.

He shook his head. “ 'Cause this . . . this is no way to die.”

David refused transport. Kit thanked the rescue squad and they began packing up their gear. The storm was leaving as quickly as it had arrived. David sat on the dock in the diminishing rain, his muscles trembling, trying to recover his strength. Kit sat next to him, while Chris went inside to find an umbrella and beach towels.

“I'm sorry,” David said. “I had no intention . . .”

“Why didn't you come in sooner?” Kit's voice sounded sharper than she intended. “You should never be out . . .” David held up his hand, which was shaking, and Kit shut up. He didn't need a lecture. When Chris came back, she introduced them.

“Thank you,” David said, “for helping me.”

Chris nodded. His suit pants, white dress shirt, and tie were drenched. Kit wondered if the rain had ruined his shoes. “Why
don't we go inside?” he suggested, as he held a golf umbrella over them.

“No,” David said. “I'm a mess. I've got to go home.” He stood up on shaky legs and began walking toward the road.

“What are you doing?” Kit asked.

“I'll get a ride.”

“Don't be ridiculous. Come inside.”

“No.”

“Then I'll take you home. We can get your car later.” She turned to Chris. “Will you excuse me?”

“Sure. We were about done. I'll call you.”

By the time they arrived at David's house, the rain had slowed considerably. David had regained just enough energy to take a shower. Then he put on sweats and collapsed on the couch. Kit had grabbed dry clothes before they left her cottage. She used the shower after him, got redressed, and now was trying to figure out what to do next. She knew she needed to take him to retrieve his car; but right now, he looked too exhausted. “You need to ice your shoulder,” she said. “Can I get an ice pack for you?