ShadowsintheMist (14 page)

Jenny was waiting for me at the appointed time of nine o’clock.
She’d left her car at the completion point and begged a ride back with one of
the rival canoe-rental trucks making its early morning deliveries and pickups.
These trucks held up to twenty canoes on their racks and the boats, despite
their unwieldiness, were lifted and stacked expertly by finely muscled young
men whose job it was to match client with canoe at the start and finish of each
leg of the journey.

Having grown up in the area, we both knew many of the men
working the river. Despite the fact Colin and David were in competition with
many of them, they were all friendly enough and happy to help out where needed.
For most, this was a summer job, meant to supplement them until school
recommenced in the autumn.

“Hi,” Jenny called cheerily. She was dressed in a flattering
pink swimsuit cut high at the thighs and topped by a T-shirt that said “New
York” over a picture of the Statue of Liberty. Her feet were encased in beat-up
old tennis shoes, toes peeping out through twin holes. Despite being
unfashionable, they were necessary for walking safely along the rock-strewn
river bottom. On the ground beside her lay a waterproof bag containing jacket,
towel, sunblock, insect repellent—all the things that might be needed during
the six-hour journey.

I returned her greeting and lifted the lid of the trunk to
retrieve my own supplies and the necessary cushions and paddles.

“Lottie’s packed us a feast, I think,” I said as she helped
haul out the cooler. We struggled to carry it down to the waiting canoe,
loading it in and securing it to the center strut with a bungee cord so the lid
wouldn’t come off should the canoe overturn. Next, the bags and equipment were
fastened on board and Jenny climbed in. I pushed off, catching my breath as the
icy water rushed around my ankles.

The current was swift and caught us as though we were
flotsam. Having mastered the art of teamwork in earlier years, we straightened
the craft expertly. I was at the stern using my paddle as a rudder to steer
around small obstacles, while Jenny was in front, poised to help turn the bow
should any major barrier arise.

It was another beautiful day. The air was moist with the
scents of moldering leaves, moss and river mud. The sun glittered down through
a spackling of overhanging foliage and lay in twitching fingers across the
gentle brown of the water. The breeze was deceptively warm. The rush and gurgle
of the river lent a peaceful, soothing tempo to the rustle of leaves overhead,
the creak and groan of swaying branches and the incessant chirp of crickets.

Now and then, a frog let out a throaty croak while sparrows
and wrens chittered from thickets and a jay squawked his displeasure over
having his territory invaded. The only sound that seemed out of place was the
sharp echoing clank of wood on metal when a paddle accidentally clipped the
side of the canoe or a tree limb slapped the bow.

There wasn’t much time for idling. The river gripped and
carried us rapidly, unconcerned that the fallen trees, shallow stones or sharp
bends might impede our rigid nine-foot craft. We were kept busy weaving in and
out of the endless bombardment of obstructions. We kept our conversation, of
necessity, to a minimum. Before long, however, the river widened to form a
deep, indolent pool and we pulled over onto a sandy bank. It was ten o’clock
and time for a rest and a snack.

“I can’t believe you brought all this food,” Jenny
exclaimed, examining the contents of the cooler. There were ham sandwiches,
chocolate cupcakes, sliced avocado, a medley of salad vegetables and fruit. “Who
did you tell Lottie you were going with? Bigfoot?”

I laughed. “What did I tell you? And the worst part is that
she’ll be hurt if it’s not all gone when we get back.”

She groaned. “Well, we can always feed the fish.”

We each selected a piece of fruit and a can of soda and sat
down on the warm sand to eat and gaze languidly at the movement of the river.

“Any new leads in your mystery?”

I didn’t answer immediately. Finding the bloodstained poker
had changed that simple mystery into something imminently more threatening.
There was a real danger now and I didn’t want Jenny involved.

“Nothing really,” I hedged.

She studied her feet. She’d removed her shoes and was
wiggling her toes, distorted by the shallow ripples lapping over them. The
water was always frigid in these swift-flowing estuaries but it felt good in
contrast to the sun’s intense rays.

“Have you talked to Grant yet?”

I tensed, then realized what she meant. “No.” I waved an
impatient hand as she opened her mouth to protest. “I know, I know! I’ll have
to do it soon. It’s just so…hard.”

I bit into my apple, relishing the crunch and rush of juice.
How could I possibly go through with the marriage now, suspecting Grant as I
did? Still, I’d probably be safer married to him than not. As his wife, I could
be pretty sure he wouldn’t bump me off right away—at least, not until he
managed to manipulate the Dirkston fortune out of my hands and into his own. If
I didn’t marry him, there’d be no reason for him to want me alive and a very
good reason to want me dead.

“Yes,” I said, almost to myself. “I believe I’ll have to set
a date right away.”

Jenny squinted at me curiously. “What are you hatching in
there? Whatever it is, I suspect it’s dastardly.”

“Yes.” I laughed. “I suppose it is. But no more so than Leo
or Grant deserve.”

“Poor Grant.” She sighed. “I doubt he’ll stand much of a
chance against you. Anyway, if it were me, I wouldn’t worry so much about
having a year of legal love with him. He’s not such a bad catch, you know.”

I choked. “Are you serious?”

She looked at me levelly. “Well, don’t you think so?”

I considered the idea. If not for my rampant suspicions, I
considered Grant Fenton a very attractive man and, up until recently, had
almost come to like him. I pushed the thought aside. There was no room for idle
dreaming. Our recent encounter had painted a darker portrait of him in my mind
and those early days seemed far removed.

As if to underline that thought, a loud crack sounded in the
distance and almost immediately, the twig of a tree above us snapped off and
fell into the water at our feet. There was another crack and a loud thud as
something struck the riverbank behind us. We froze, confused. Then I saw the
glint of metal between trees at the top of a rise some distance ahead.

“My God, someone’s shooting at us! Get back, Jenny!”

The next few moments were confusion. Instinctively, I leapt
to my feet and clambered up the sharp bank behind me. I fell flat at the top
and squirmed deep into the shadowy protection of the forest. At first, I sensed
Jenny following close behind but when I took the time to look back, I was alone
and an ominous silence surrounded me, broken only by my own heavy breathing and
thudding heartbeat.

“Jenny,” I hissed urgently. Silence.

There was a rustling in the underbrush and I whirled, catching
my arm on a sharp briar. I cried out as the thorns tore my flesh. The movement
I heard was only a chipmunk foraging among the fallen leaves for food. I lay
still for some time, straining my ears for any sound of my friend or the
gunman. When nothing happened, I carefully turned myself around and crept back
to the edge of the bank. I was horrified at the sight that met my eyes.

Jenny lay on her back at the river’s edge. One hand was
flung over her head into the water. The other was out to one side, clutching a
small tree root that must have broken off in her haste to scale the embankment.
Her eyes were shut, though her head nodded with the lapping of water around it.
Long strands of her golden hair trailed out like tongues of flame into the dark
pool. The sand beneath her back was slowly turning red.

Heedless of the shooter who might still be waiting on the
distant hill, I half-rolled, half-fell down the incline in my panic to reach
her. I pressed my fingers to the side of her neck and was somewhat relieved to
feel a strong pulse. She didn’t stir at my touch, however and I knew I’d have
to find help quickly.

I pulled her farther up onto the shore, into a slight niche
formed at the base of the rise. Then, I rummaged through my own bag of
belongings, cursing inwardly for having left my cell phone at home. I pulled
out a towel, wadding it into a compress. Lifting her prone body a fraction, I
was able to fix the padding tightly against the wound with one of the elastic
cords used to secure the cooler. As a last measure, I covered her with what few
bits of clothing and towels remained, stripping off my own light cover-up to
add what warmth I could.

I glanced around. The river was unusually empty, though I
remembered a number of canoes lined up at the starting point. There was bound
to be someone along at any moment but I couldn’t wait. I had a better chance of
hailing someone from the river’s edge as I made my way back on foot. There was
no point in going down river. There would be no help in that direction for at
least five miles. I only hoped the gunman was gone and not waiting to finish
the job.

Taking to the woods and keeping the river in sight, I
hurried as quickly as I could, running where possible, regardless of the
underbrush that tore at my unprotected legs and the small branches that whipped
my face and arms.

Less than five minutes later, I heard the sound of voices
and the rattle and clank of canoes. I ran faster and skidded down to the water’s
edge just as three crafts approached. I hailed them frantically and, seeing my
obvious urgency, they paddled closer. I explained the situation as briefly as
possible. There were three couples and all of them listened with growing
concern, agreeing to remain with Jenny until I was able to return with help.
One of the men was a radiologist who knew first aid and would do what he could.
I hurried on, my mind filled with the image of Jenny’s life seeping away like
the blood from her wound.

When at last I found help, it wasn’t at our starting point
but rather a road that bridged the river about a mile further. It was a dirt
road and though fairly wide and well-kept, it stretched empty in both
directions. I could continue on toward where I’d left my car, or try to find a
house and a phone. Temporarily indecisive, I finally struck out east toward
Scottville because I knew it was closer than Ludington to the west.

I continued running, wishing I’d kept up my beach jogging
with Giles. Sweat dripped from my face and neck and the small dust clouds
kicked up by my pounding feet clung to my skin until I was gray with it. The
sun beat down on my bare flesh and, although the black-and-yellow bikini I wore
was cooler than heavy clothing, it provided no protection from the burning
ultraviolet rays.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to go far before a small, white,
rickety pickup overtook me. I managed to wave it down and within seconds, was
seated alongside an elderly farmer, gasping out my story as he drove swiftly to
a nearby house to call for help.

The rescue wasn’t an easy one. Paramedics had to weave their
ambulance down one of the fire trails cut to accommodate firefighters. These
trails crisscrossed everywhere and it was only with the help of the local
ranger that they were able to find their way to within yards of the place where
a crowd of canoeists and inner-tubists had now gathered.

I refused to go ahead to the hospital as suggested,
insisting they allow me to accompany them. They conceded, merely, I suspected,
because I was the only one who knew the exact location and could direct them.
Once we arrived, I was shunted aside as a stretcher and miscellaneous medical
equipment were handed down to where Jenny still lay unconscious.

I watched in shock. The man who’d claimed some knowledge of
first aid came to stand near me and assured me he’d done what he could but
there was no way to know how bad the wound was. When I didn’t respond, he
touched my shoulder gently. “You should have someone take a look at those cuts,
miss.”

I looked at him vaguely. He was a middle-aged man with
graying sideburns, a round nose and a slightly sagging waistline. His eyes were
sympathetic and I looked down at myself dazedly. My arms and legs were cut and
bleeding and bruises were already darkening. I put a hand to my head and felt a
rising lump where I’d run into a branch. There was a deep scrape on one cheek
from where I fell in my rush to Jenny’s side.

I nodded at the man’s suggestion but completely forgot it as
the medics brought Jenny up on the stretcher. An oxygen mask covered her mouth
and nose and an intravenous drip was held aloft by an attendant. A heavy
blanket was wrapped around her under the retaining straps. She was so very
pale.

“Is she…”

“She’s alive,” one of the men responded in clipped haste.

They loaded her into the ambulance and, forbidden to ride in
the rear with the attendant, I climbed into the front seat. We set off at a
painfully slow pace over the rutted forest track. The revolving red light on
top cast ruby shards across the sun-speckled trees. Once we reached the road,
the siren was switched on and we sped urgently toward the hospital.

Chapter Seven

Of calling shapes and beckoning shadows dire,

And airy tongues, that syllable men’s names

On sands and shores and desert wilderness.

John Milton,
Comus, A Mask

I found a new retreat where even David would be hard-pressed
to find me. I wasn’t allowed to come here as a child without supervision. The
lighthouse stood behind me, a protective fortress between me and the mansion,
squatting atop its perch with dark windows watching my every move. This spot
belonged to the lighthouse. She’d stood on this rocky jetty for years,
weathering storm after storm, her mortared bulk rooted inescapably into the
ancient bolders.