A Killer Retreat (18 page)

“Thanks, Bruce, but—”

Rene yelled through clenched teeth. “Kate! What. Did. I. Say?” She
pursed her lips, narrowed her eyebrows, and glared.

When Rene wore that pigheaded expression, resistance wasn't just futile; it was catastrophic. I had two options: let Bruce play doctor or go for a whirlybird ride to Anacortes. I wanted off the island, but not that way.

I submitted and did my best impersonation of a cooperative patient. I allowed Bruce to shine a blinding light in each of my eyes. I followed his fingers, told him what day it was, and named the current president. I turned my head left and right, making a concerted effort not to wince. I allowed him to palpate my neck and tolerated his fingertips pressing up and down my spine. I was basically truthful when I answered his questions, though I might have left out a detail or two about dizziness, nausea, and the electrical storm raging down my arm. What were a couple of missing details between friends?

Bruce finished his examination, leaned back, and looked at me uncertainly. “I'm a pediatrician, not a neurologist or a spine specialist.” He frowned. “If we were in Seattle, I'd suggest you go to a hospital.”

“I really don't think I need—”

He held up his hand. “I know. You've made it abundantly clear. You don't want to go to the hospital.” He sighed. “Honestly, an ER doc would probably send you home, anyway.” He stood up. “I seriously doubt anything's broken, though you certainly have some strained muscles. You might have a minor concussion, but the fall was pretty short, and you seem lucid.”

“I don't know,” Rene said. “Lucid might be stretching it for Kate,
even on a good day.”

Bruce smiled—the first smile I'd seen from him since the night before Monica's death. “I think we can hold off on anything drastic for now. Your friends can take you to the clinic in Eastsound tomorrow if you feel worse.” He pulled a notebook out of his pocket. “I'm going to write down a list of danger signs. If you start vomiting, have trouble staying conscious, or start having balance issues, we're calling that helicopter.” He looked at me through raised eyebrows. “Agreed?”

Rene and I spoke at the same time.

“Absolutely,” she replied.

I smiled. “Agreed. Thank you.”

Bruce shook his head. “Don't thank me yet. This may be a huge mistake.” He jotted down some notes and handed the paper to Michael. “Make sure she wakes up every few hours. I'll phone in a painkiller prescription tomorrow.” To me, he said, “Any allergies I need to know about?”

“No.”

He reached into his pocket again and pulled out a brown vial. “If you promise not to tell anyone, I'll give you a couple of Vicodin to get through the night. Ice your neck every couple of hours, and we'll see how you do.” He looked at Emmy. “Honey, would you please get Kate a glass of water?” He shook two white, oblong pills into my hand. “Take these and try to get some sleep.”

I only got a quick glance at the label, and my vision was undeniably blurry from head trauma. But the name I saw printed on top clearly wasn't Bruce. It wasn't Monica, either. It certainly wasn't she-who-will-soon-fall-on-her-head. If I had to guess, I'd have said that the name on that bottle looked a lot like Helen.

Was Bruce the mysterious drug thief ?

I knew Vicodin could be addictive, but pilfering a few pills from his ex-wife seemed like an odd way to obtain it, considering Bruce had a prescription pad of his very own.

I should have quizzed Bruce about Helen's medicine or at least puzzled through some scenarios with Rene, but I didn't have a single brain cell to spare. My head pounded, my back ached, and what little was left of my brainpower was foggy and dull. Solving this particular riddle would have to wait until tomorrow. I took the water from Emmy and gratefully swallowed the bitter pills.

Michael and Sam walked Bruce to the door while Emmy and Rene stayed behind with me.

“See, just like I told you. I'm fine. You were all worried for nothing.”

Emmy's expression remained concerned. “Maybe, but be careful. I'm beginning to think this place is cursed.” She walked to the door but stopped with her hand on the doorknob. “Don't worry about teaching tomorrow. I'll put up a sign at Shanti House saying that classes have been cancelled for the rest of the week.”

“Not on your life,” I replied emphatically. “Those yoga classes are the only way I'll get people to talk to me. I'll be there—early even—
for the morning class. You'd better con some people into attending. And I'll still teach the private class to your family at eleven. I might be looped-up on pain killers, but I'll be there.”

It took some convincing, but Emmy eventually agreed. The Vicodin had begun to kick in, coating my brain in a warm, mellow haze, so I opted to wait and grill Emmy about her supposed relationship with Kyle the following morning. I told her good night and thanked her for her help.

A few minutes later, we all went back to bed. Rene and Sam retired to the living room. Michael lay next to me; Bella curled up at my feet. I couldn't turn my head left to face Michael, so I stared at the ceiling as I whispered the words.

“I
do
love you, you know.”

Michael didn't reply, but he reached across that cold, empty minefield and took my hand. When Bella asked to go outside again two hours later, he whispered the three most beautiful words this girl had ever heard.

“I'll take her.”

seventeen

Dying wasn't all it
was cracked up to be. There were no white lights, no long tunnels. No coaxing voices beckoning me to the other side. Just impenetrable darkness and a shrill, beeping noise that pierced my head like the repeated thrusts of an ice pick.

I'd died and gone straight to Hell.

My neck had fused into one solid block of cement. Muscles up and down my spine—some I didn't even know existed—screamed. Fists gripped my lower back and pounded my skull.

And it was time to get up and teach yoga.

I looked at the clock and groaned. Only fifty-eight minutes left until my seven o'clock class. The way I felt, I'd need every one of them. I shut off the alarm, inched to the side of the bed, and placed my feet on the floor.
OK, Kate. You can do this.
I took a deep breath and stood up.

Ouch!

Make that
tried
to stand up.

I froze, immobilized by an excruciating back spasm.

Come on, Kate. Move!

I slowly lowered my knees to the floor, turned on the table lamp, and looked around the room. Extricating my yoga mat from the top shelf of the closet was out of the question, so I crawled, inch by painful inch, to Bella's dog blanket. It wasn't a yoga mat, but it would have to do.

I knew enough about yoga to not have any misplaced delusions. Unlike the Vicodin Bruce had given me last night, yoga didn't provide a quick fix. In cases of acute injury like mine, rest and ice were often more effective. Rest wasn't an option this morning, so I hoped an extra-gentle movement practice would ease my battered body—at least enough for me to regain the will to live.

I started lying on my back in a pose called Apanasana, or Knees-to-Chest Pose. I placed my palms on my kneecaps. With each inhale, I rocked my knees away from my chest until my arms were straight. With each exhale, I drew my thighs toward my ribcage, gently stretching my lower back. Fingers of tension slowly released their grip on my lumbar spine. I wrapped my arms around my shins and rocked left and right, gently massaging my sacral area.

I lowered my feet to the floor and transitioned to hands and knees for a modified Cat Pose. The traction-like movement on inhale lengthened my spine. As I exhaled to Child's Pose, my upper back released in a soft snap, crackle, pop.

My neck was a completely different animal. A stubborn one. No matter what pose I tried, it refused to move. Having a cement block where my neck used to be was probably a blessing, since each time I tried to turn my head left, I received a uniquely exquisite form of shock treatment. But did my scalp need to shrink three hat sizes? I could barely think through the pressure building inside of my skull.

Teaching yoga wouldn't be a problem; I could do that on autopilot. Not a great class, mind you. Perhaps not even a good one. But I could do it. Investigating murder was a different story. How was I supposed to think up snappy, insightful interrogation questions when my head was about to explode?

I finished my short practice, iced my neck for ten minutes, and popped three Advil. Before I walked out the door, I checked to make sure the Yoga Chick was in my jacket pocket. I had no plans to stumble across any new bodies, but I wasn't willing to risk being phoneless again, either.

I shuffled my way to Shanti House, unlocked the door, and gingerly set up a mat at the front of the room. Pins and needles pierced my fingertips, but I pasted on a fake smile, greeted each student without turning my head, and prayed that the Advil would kick in soon.

No one appeared to notice my discomfort.

Pretending to be OK—even when you weren't—was a yoga teach
er's
core competency. Bad day or not, injured or not, even accused
of mur
der or not, once a yoga teacher sat on her mat, she was expected to exude calm equanimity and easeful grace. Like an old woman trapped in a bad marriage, I'd learned to fake it.

It was a good thing.

Emmy had, indeed, worked her magic. Over a dozen people showed up for that morning class, including several people I recognized as Elysian Springs' employees, an elderly woman, and two chatty teenage boys who placed their mats in the front row.

As I slowly lowered my body to the floor, the fourteenth student—the Grumpy Yogini—sneaked in the door. I smiled to greet her. She glanced at the floor and pretended to flick dust bunnies off her mat.

Nice to see you, too.

I began class the way I always did.

“Hi everyone. Welcome to this morning's yoga class. Please turn
off your cell phones.” I smiled. “Though only a crazy person would call this early.” Several people laughed at my joke, which was my first intention. The elderly woman stood up, fished around in her purse, and turned off her phone. That was my second.

I closed my eyes and silently begged the jackhammer pounding behind them to give it a rest.

“Be. Here. Now.”

I spoke the three words to myself as much as my students.

“Leave your day outside the door. In this moment, everything is perfect. In this moment, you are at peace. Sit quietly and be with that peace.”

What a load of crap.

I didn't
want
to be here now. Here now sucked.

My back ached, my head throbbed, and my mind wandered. I wanted to be somewhere else, at some other time. Preferably off this island, three days ago—when my body was uninjured, my relationship was healthy, and my future was more than a mental diorama of courtrooms and prison cells.

My thoughts rambled on in a monologue of unrelated questions: Who killed Monica? Why did the Grumpy Yogini keep attending my classes when she so obviously hated them? If I sliced my head off at the shoulders, would it finally stop pounding? Who invented yoga shoes and why?

I opened my eyes. Twenty-eight eyes stared back. How long ha
d I been sitting there, silent?

Come on, Kate. You can get through this.

I picked up the Tibetan chimes I rang at the beginning of each class. No matter how scattered I felt when I arrived on my mat, their melodious, clear sound always centered me.

The first strike rang out clearly and vibrated soothingly across the space. I felt my shoulders drop down from my ears.

I could do this.

The second chime fell less precisely, but that was OK. I didn't think anyone but me noticed. I took another deep breath.

Evidently, the third chime's a charm.

As I lifted the two metal bells to ring them a final time, my neck spasmed and the leather string attaching them slipped through my fingers. They fell to the floor with a loud, metallic, inharmonious clank.

Fourteen bodies flinched. Fourteen pairs of eyes flew open. The two teenagers burst out laughing.

A smart yoga teacher would have admitted defeat, gathered her belongings, and headed on home.

I kept teaching.

The class went reasonably well until the fourth posture. “Cross your right ankle over your right knee, and hold it with your left elbow.” Fourteen pairs of confused eyes looked anxiously around the room, obviously hoping someone—anyone—knew what I meant. I looked around, too. After all, I was as confused as they were. “Oh wait a minute. I mean
left
ankle over right knee.”

“Wasn't that the side we just did?” asked the obnoxious teenager I now hated. His friend sniggered.

“You're right. I mean right ankle over right knee.” The grumpy yogini furrowed her brow and frowned, then crossed her right ankle over her
left
knee, as I had intended. I threw my hands up in frustration. “Oh, you know what I mean.”

Five minutes later, one of the teenagers released a very loud, very smelly, plume of intestinal gas. His friend poked him and yelled, “Gross!” The rest of the room pretended not to notice.

Class went downhill from there.

I stepped on the Grumpy Yogini's hand when I tried to adjust her in Cobra Pose and dropped a bamboo block on the elderly woman's foot. For everyone's safety, I moved to the front of the room, where I promptly kicked over the pillar candle. Words never before uttered in yoga class poured from my mouth as I slapped out the flames licking up my pant leg.

Meditation had to be safe, right?

I brought the class to sitting, leaned against the wall to support my back, and tried to block out the pain. I spoke in a low, hypnotic voice. “Notice the silence surrounding you. Drink in that silence. Allow it to nurture your soul. Allow it to—”

A loud, vibrating rumble—not unlike the jackhammer ripping apart my brain—drowned out the rest of my sentence.

What the heck?

I stood up and glanced out the window. One of the center's grounds
keepers cheerfully waved back from his riding lawnmower. At first I tried to simply ignore the intrusive sound. If experienced meditators could focus in Grand Central Station, surely I could deal with the rumblings of the world's tiniest tractor.

I continued teaching. “Sound is simply another of life's many distractions. Use what you hear now to deepen your practice.” My students shifted uncomfortably and glowered at the window.

I could take a hint.

I walked back to the window and nonverbally dialogued with the gardener. I started the conversation by waving. He waved back. I made a slashing move across my throat. He cocked his head curiously. I pretended to shoot myself in the head.

I wasn't going for subtlety.

It worked. He winced, turned off the machine, and mouthed the word “sorry.”

Meditation was obviously a lost cause, but I still had one last, magic tool in my bag of yoga tricks. Nothing cured the hangover of a truly awful yoga class like an extra long period of Savasana—yoga's pose of quiet rest. If I played my cards right, after fifteen-minutes of deep relaxation, everyone—myself included—would have forgotten all about this horrible class.

I asked the students to lie down, covered them shoulders-to-toes in warm cotton blankets, and turned on the CD player. Melodic Sanskrit chanting filled the space with promises of peace.

I laid my aching body on my mat, covered my eyes with a lavender-scented eye pillow, and tried to regain my composure.

I was five breaths into a gentle pranayama practice when a
metallic rendition of “Who Let the Dogs Out?” shattered the atmosphere. Annoyed-looking students opened their eyes, shifted under their blankets, and surreptitiously glared at their neighbors.

At first I was mildly amused.
Only in Washington
. Next to “Louie
Louie,” “Who Let the Dogs Out?” was practically the state theme song.

Then I was irritated.
How rude.
I'd clearly asked everyone to turn off their cell phones. It had to be that obnoxious teenager. I was about to order him to get off of his gas-producing behind and turn it off, when the phone stopped ringing.

Five minutes later, it rang again.

The snarky teenager replied. “Someone should let them back in.” His friend guffawed. The Grumpy Yogini buried her head underneath her blanket. The elderly woman tsk-tsked through her dentures.

And that's when my head exploded.

Or at least that's what it felt like. My upper lip twitched; my hands
formed tight fists; my teeth ground together. I marched to the shelves by the door, determined to find the offending device and stomp it to death with my candle-wax-encrusted foot. The phone rang again, inquiring over and over again about those exasperating, free-running canines.

I ignored all rules of etiquette and pawed through the pile of other people's belongings. I was going to find that phone and destroy it. It was right there. Right under that purse in …

My jacket pocket.

Oh good lord, it's mine.

In my haze of narcotics-dulled pain, I'd forgotten to turn off my
own
cell phone. I didn't recognize the ringtone because that damned prankster Rene had changed it again. An image of the headline of today's
Orcas Islander
flashed through my mind: “Yoga Teacher Dies Shoving Phone Down Own Throat.”

Make that tomorrow's headline.

Before I euthanized myself with the infernal device, I was going to use it to beat Rene senseless.

The Yoga Chick mocked me with a feather-faced grin.
Don't look so smug
, I thought.
You're about to end up in landfill.
I quickly glanced down at the missed calls indicator. Three messages, all from Serenity Yoga. All before eight in the morning. That couldn't be good.

I turned off the phone, put it back in my jacket, and counted the minutes until I could end this disastrous class. I'm pretty sure my students were counting, too. As soon as I sounded the chimes, they popped up like Pop Tarts, quickly gathered their belongings, and darted out of the building without even saying Namaste. Detaining them to talk about Monica's murder was out of the question.

I scraped the dried wax off the floor, swept up the remnants, and prepared to slink home. When I opened the door, the Grumpy Yogini waited outside, frowning and pacing back and forth on the lawn.

Seriously? She stayed after class today?

I considered waiting her out under a pile of yoga props, but my red-hot face and inflamed nerve endings would have melted the mats. I rubbed my aching shoulders and steeled myself for some unpleasant student feedback.

“Do you have a question?”

She didn't make eye contact. “No … not really. I mean …” Her voice, barely audible to begin with, drifted off. She glanced up, flashed a wan smile, and quickly looked away again. “I wanted … um … I wanted to talk to you for a minute. To thank you for the yoga classes.” She twirled a strand of hair around her index finger. “You're an amazing teacher.”

Huh?

I expected to hear any number of words, but none of them those. Not thank you. And frankly, the only thing “amazing” about my teaching that morning was the lack of significant casualties. I took a step back and glanced around, looking for a hidden camera. Was this some kind of practical joke?