My Sister's Keeper (21 page)

“
Damn, Sydney! I ordered that boat for you!”

“
The hell you did! Don’t go throwing
that
in my face.”

He moved closer. His voice softened. “What happened? Am I working too much? I thought everything was going along just great.”

“
Things have
not
been going along just
great
.” As he tried to corner her again, she spun away and moved back into the dining room picking at the hardened wax as she went. “We haven’t even made love in months.”

“
Because you’re always too tired and stressed out.”

She lifted her champagne glass and turned to face him. “Because I don’t love you anymore, Scott.” She downed the rest of the drink and a sliver of glass tumbled into her mouth. Working it around on the tip of her tongue, she spit it back into her glass. “I haven’t for a long time. I’m sorry. I
tried
. Really, I did.”

With a spasm making Scott’s cheek flutter, he drew a deep slow breath.
Sometimes in real life

as in court

you win by appearing to concede.
He flinched as he said the words. “All right, Sydney. If that’s what you want.” He turned and walked out.

She’d heard the words, but didn’t believe them and watched him as he climbed the stairs.
That was too easy. He’s up to something.

28

I
WASN’T SURE I’D HEARD the waitress correctly. “She was here? You saw her?”

“
I was outside on break smoking a cigarette when she and the guy she was with pulled up.” She popped her gum again.

“
Are you sure it was the same girl?”

She held the newspaper farther away and squinted. “I might not know it was her from that picture alone, but she had those hair beads.”

“
What kind of boat was it?”

“
It was small—just a workboat.” She pointed out the window. “Like that one down there.” She pointed to my rental and goose bumps broke out on my arms.

“
There was a man with her?”

“
I didn’t see him very well. He stayed in the boat. They were having motor trouble. Somebody else passing through was trying to help them.”

“
How old was he?”

“
The man? I don’t know. Young, I think.”

“
Do you remember anything about the helper?”

“
An older couple. Gray-haired.”

“
What kind of boat did they have?”

“
It was nice. Fairly big. I can’t remember what it was, but it had an unusual name—something different. You want some pie?”

I took a pencil from her apron pocket. “What’s your name?”

“
Darla Pridgeon.” She spelled it out for me as I wrote it along the side of the newspaper, then went and returned with a generous wedge of homemade blueberry cheesecake that I savored slowly with the coffee while waiting for the weather to clear up.

Who could have been with Ashleigh?
Could it have been a boyfriend? Or David?
He was supposed to be at his aunt and uncle’s house.
But was he?

It was now after 11 a.m. and I had a four o’clock rehearsal. My clothes had dried and the warmth had come back into my legs and feet. The rain didn’t appear to be slacking off anytime soon, so I donned the poncho, paid the bill, and thanked Darla again pressing a hundred-dollar bill into her hand. When she unfolded it, her gum fell out of her mouth.

“
You have no idea how much you’ve helped me,” I told her.

Pulling the hood over my head, I reluctantly stepped back out into the storm. Boats along the waterfront rocked back and forth and strained against their ties as the huge waves rolled under them and crashed against the seawall, spewing water high into the air. I fought to keep my balance as I head-butted the storm, stumbled back into the boat, cranked the engine, and held the boat off the wall while untying the lines.

Jumping to the controls, I gave it some gas and nosed the bow northward trying to keep it from slamming against the dock. But just as I pulled away I heard a woman screaming, turned, and saw the waitress in a yellow hooded raincoat stumbling along the waterfront waving an arm at me.

“
What?” I shouted.

Whipped by the wind and holding her raincoat together, Darla followed alongside shouting in a futile attempt to be heard. I killed the engine and heard her shout, “It’s Rachel’s Diamond. That’s the name of the boat.”

“
Rachel’s Diamond?”

A wave slammed the bulkhead and exploded high into the air spraying Darla. She lowered her head and held her ground. “Yes. Don’t you think that’s kind of sweet?”

“
Yes. Yes, I do!” I laughed. “Rachel’s Diamond!” Jumping to the side of the boat, I reached for the seawall to keep the boat from being slammed against it.

Darla sat down on the wall and used her feet to help hold the boat back while I cranked the engine again and aimed the boat toward home.

“
Thanks!” I called.

Rachel’s Diamond. No telling where it could be now. Could be anywhere up and down the eastern seaboard.

The wind had shifted to the northeast and was gusting to at least twenty knots. The river rolled with three-foot whitecaps and the boat rose and fell over each crest. The trip back was going to take longer and I hadn’t allowed for much extra time. As I pulled into traffic to cross the busy Cape Fear, the rain increased to a deluge and I could only see about twenty feet in front of me. A huge wave struck the boat from the front, splashed over the bow, and flooded the bottom of the boat just as the engine sputtered, coughed, and quit. I turned the key and the engine turned over, but it wouldn’t catch. I had no means of controlling the boat without the motor running. I leaned over and wiped the rain off the gas gauge on the first tank. The needle pointed to
empty.

As I moved the gas line to the full tank, the wind skewed the boat sideways and another wave washed into the boat filling it with water. I hit the key and the engine turned over, though it still didn’t start. As a foghorn blasted close by, I remembered the bulb, felt under the water for it, squeezed my hand around it, and compressed it as hard as I could. Again and again I compressed the bulb and when I felt liquid moving through it, I tried the key again. Another wave washed over the side of the boat as I repeatedly squeezed the bulb while holding the key in the start position. The engine sputtered and coughed, sputtered again, and coughed again. As another wave slammed the side of the boat, the huge gray bow of a gigantic steel freighter became visible through the mist bearing straight down upon me.

Another wave struck broadside and the boat sank lower into the water just as the engine fired to life. I rammed the gearshift forward. The engine whined, the boat lurched, water sloshed out over the stern, and I fell into the space next to the seat. Another wave washed more seawater into the boat and as the ship bore down on me, I grabbed the wheel, pulled myself to my knees, and reeled it to the left. But the boat, heavy with water and sitting low in the river, was slow to move and, although the engine was running full throttle, brushed the side of the freighter before it pulled away.

The boat was moving too slowly to pull the plug, so with the salt spray stinging my eyes, I jockeyed the boat around the river traffic and finally made it back into the narrower Intracoastal Waterway. Using my shoe, I bailed the boat while keeping it on course, and when the boat finally planed-off, I pulled the plug and let the rest of the seawater out.

As I neared the entrance to Bradley Creek, the rain ended, the winds calmed, and the sun broke through the clouds. The final leg back to the old timer’s dock turned out to be the most comfortable part of the trip. I turned in the key, loaded the car, and headed for home with barely a half-hour to slip into some dry clothes and get downtown.

As I pulled into my driveway, I was met by Detective Jones and two other officers who handcuffed me, read me my rights for the second time, and hauled me, yet again, to the police station. I didn’t even get the opportunity to change clothes.

I was furious.

29

D
OWNTOWN, THE OFFICERS AGAIN led me up the concrete ramp into the holding area. And again, as the heavy metal door slammed shut behind me, a chill squiggled up my spine. The same desk sergeant shoved the same telephone in my direction, removed the cuffs, and repeated the same line, “You only get one, so you better make it a good one.”

I needed to let Scott know where I was, but doubted he’d be at his office on a Sunday afternoon, so I called Sappy. I caught him walking out the door, explained what was going on, and asked him for two favors. The first was to post a note on the back door of the studio canceling rehearsal; the second being to find Scott McGillikin and let him know I was again in police custody and in dire need of his immediate presence.

Parked in a hot room still wearing the layers of wet clothes, I became nauseous. I peeled off the jacket, two shirts, and the insulated underwear leaving them in a pile on the floor. Then waited.

When Scott arrived hours later, I blurted out, “I have great news!” the instant he entered.

He raised his hand to stop me and held it there until the escort had gone, then leaned close. “What have you got?”

“
You’re not going to believe this, but
Ashleigh is alive!
I found someone who saw her last Monday.”

Scott set his briefcase on the table and stared at me. “You told the police?”

“
Not yet.”

“
Then don’t. Let me handle this. I’ll take it directly to the D.A. There’s no need for Sam Jones and his buffoons to even know about it. You understand?”

“
But if Jones knew Ashleigh was alive, I’d be off the hook.”

The door swung open and Detective Jones stepped into the room.

“
Keep you mouth shut. Let me handle this,” Scott muttered dragging his briefcase across the steel table to his place next to me.

Jones stepped over a chair and sat directly across from me dropping a stack of papers in front of him. He set a cassette recorder on the table between us and pressed the “record” button.

“
Mr. Baimbridge,” he started. “Tell us again what you did after you went back to the Matthews house that Sunday night in question.”

I leaned forward to answer, but Scott quickly broke in squeezing my shoulder hard. “Look, Jones,” he said. “For starters, turn that damned tape recorder off. Then let’s you and me step out into the hallway and discuss whatever it is you think you have that gives you the right to drag my client in here in such a barbaric fashion.” The muscles in Jones’s jaw pulsed. He snapped the recorder off and rose from his seat.

Scott opened his briefcase and removed a legal pad sliding it to me. “I want you to write down whatever information you think you have. And don’t leave out
any
details. We’ll go over it after I finish with Detective Jones.” He closed the briefcase, then followed Sam out.

I didn’t have a pen, so I opened his briefcase and rummaged around in it to find one. As I shoved things aside, I came across a photo of a man on the beach with his arms around three very attractive young girls in swimsuits. The man had dark sunglasses, a mustache, thick eyebrows, and exquisite taste in women. Another client, I guessed.

Finding a mechanical pencil inside a compartment, I began writing out what had happened on the trip. The bicycle. The rental boat. And what Darla had told me.

As I detailed the new information I’d come across, I could hear loud voices outside the door, but couldn’t make out what they were saying.

“
OKAY, JONES,” SCOTT SAID magnifying his exasperation. “Just what the hell is it that you supposedly have
this
time?”

“
Your boy certainly does get around, Counselor.”

“
Your point is?” Scott held his gaze.

“
The SBI report came back and—no surprise here—the semen in Ashleigh Matthews’ bed belongs to Richard Baimbridge.” Jones flashed a triumphant smile.

“
I presume you have a copy of that report for me. If you don’t—” Without looking down, Sam whipped out a copy and held it out for Scott. Taking it, Scott stepped closer to Jones and lowered his voice to an almost threatening tone. “You think this is sufficient to haul Mr. Baimbridge back down here for your amusement? I don’t think so. And I remind you that my client told you—on two occasions—that he passed out. And we both know that semen can easily be extracted from an unconscious man.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, McGillikin. You forgetting the broken fingernail belonging to Ms. Matthews that had your client’s skin and blood attached to it?” Sam whipped out a second set of papers. “I have him nailed and you know it.”