ShadowsintheMist (15 page)

I felt a strange companionship with her, like one convict
for another. We were both prisoners—the lighthouse, steadfast against the
continual buffeting of nature’s whims and me, braced strongly in my own right
against the onslaught of murder, suspicion, fear and frustration.

Winter was approaching. I could feel it in the breeze. The
sky was overcast with gray autumn clouds blanketing everything in shapeless
mist. Even the lake was moody, swirling and perverse, as though waiting
impatiently for some cue to rise up. It too, must have sensed the approach of
winter, nibbling skittishly at my rocky throne.

The outcropping where I sat was made up of huge gray and
black boulders, arranged at least a hundred years ago to serve as a platform
for the lighthouse. The rocks, smoothed by the constant caress of waves,
offered a labyrinth of crevices and cracks where one slip might cause serious
injury. In some places, moss and algae grew green and blue, blending together
in a woolly blur. This softened the surfaces but made footing even more
perilous.

It was three days since the shooting. Jenny clung to life.
The bullet had punctured a lung and lodged precariously close to her heart. It
was a miracle that the loss of blood hadn’t killed her but youth and strength
had saved her until a transfusion could be administered. They didn’t operate
until her condition had stabilized at least eight hours later, then the surgery
itself took over six hours. The subsequent prognosis was uncertain.

I’d stayed at the hospital the rest of the day and would
have stayed longer had the situation permitted. I hardly noticed the young
intern who insisted on patching my abrasions or the nurse, who after giving up
on persuading me to go home, wrapped a blanket around me and placed a steaming
cup of coffee in my hands.

Jenny’s mother had arrived within minutes and I told her
what I could. She was a tall, big-boned woman with veins showing in her pale
arms and eyes that seemed too large for her face. Her hair, once blonde like
Jenny’s, was dyed a darker, brownish shade and was wound loosely on top of her
head. Her clothing was limp. She’d come directly from work, a Dirkston regional
office in Ludington where she was clerical supervisor. She’d aged considerably
since I’d seen her last and the present worry further accentuated the lines
around her mouth and eyes.

During my youth, Leo tolerated my friendship with Jenny.
Jenny’s father was a foreman at the docks in Ludington and, though he brought
home a comfortable wage and was a kind, likeable man, Leo didn’t consider the
Hamptons suitably classed for me. Even as a child, however, I was strong-willed
and he finally relented and allowed our relationship limited scope.

When Jenny’s father died of a heart attack, the Hamptons
were thrown into a financial dilemma. Leo, despite his snobbery, helped them
out where he could and gave Jenny’s mother a job at the firm. Meanwhile, Jenny
waitressed part-time and through hard work and determination, managed to earn a
scholarship to Michigan State University.

I was never sure exactly what Mrs. Hampton thought of me.
She was always impeccably polite but there was a hint of stiffness, perhaps
resentment, that I found sadly impregnable.

After I spilled out my story to her, she lapsed into
silence, seemingly intent on pacing the small waiting room or gazing blindly
out the window that overlooked the main street. I wondered if she blamed me for
the accident.

I figured I might have been indirectly responsible. It
seemed plausible that whoever fired those shots might have been aiming at me
and I suspected it was the same person who killed my father. Somehow, they knew
I’d found the murder weapon and were bent on revenge. Mrs. Hampton didn’t know
any of this, however and her accusing attitude hurt and puzzled me.

When the police came, I still didn’t voice my fears. It was
Sergeant Davison, the same officer I spoke to at the station. He seemed
uninterested in hearing my hypothesis, continually demanding in television
stereotype that I “stick to the facts”. I asked him matter-of-factly if Mr.
Fenton had by any chance been to see him recently and wasn’t surprised when he
shook his head no.

Mrs. Hampton listened to the police interview silently from
the far side of the room. When he was finished, the officer approached her and
spoke so softly I could barely piece together the conversation.

“Hunters out this time of year,” he said. “Amateurs… Accidents
happen… Investigation…”

I stood up, incensed. “That was no accident,” I fumed. The
two turned to look at me in surprise. “That man was aiming at us. I saw him. He
was trying to kill us!” I hardly knew what I was saying. My hands trembled and
I felt weak as I clutched the blanket around me.

Mrs. Hampton went even more pale and placed a hand on the
back of a chair for support. “What are you saying, Suzanna? Who? Who would want
to kill my Jenny?”

“No,” I cried desperately. “Not Jenny! He wanted to kill me!
I know it! First, he killed my father and now he wants to kill me!” I burst
into tears.

The floor nurse, hearing my raised voice, hurried in and
tried to comfort me, pulling me aside and urging me to sit on the brown vinyl
couch.

“Take these,” she said, holding out two tablets and a paper
cup with water. “You’ll feel better.”

Numbly, I did as I was told. My outburst had left me totally
drained. When the nurse was sure I was calmer, she left, casting a scowl over
her shoulder at the sergeant.

He turned back to Mrs. Hampton and proceeded to assure her
my allegations would be looked into but added, “Miss Dirkston is obviously
suffering from shock on top of grief over her father’s recent demise and can’t
be taken seriously.”

I remained sullenly silent, realizing nothing I could say
would convince this small-town policeman there was a murderer loose in the
area. Besides, I had to admit there was a slim possibility he was right. All I
actually saw was the flash of the gun on the distant ridge. I didn’t even know
for sure if the shooter was male or female. It seemed a bit farfetched, though,
that an innocent hunter would fire so many misplaced shots. One, perhaps but
not three.

Sergeant Davison left with a few more reassuring words to
Jenny’s mother and promises to me that he would have my claims investigated. We
watched him go with dubious expressions, then fell once more into our own
separate distractions.

David arrived a few minutes later, his face a picture of
concern. I was never so glad to see him and accepted his embrace wordlessly,
sobbing as he led me back to the couch and sat with me. He wanted to take me
home at once—in fact, he insisted. But I refused, determined to remain until
there was word on Jenny’s condition.

“Everyone will be worried about you, Suzanna,” he argued. “Besides,
you look awful. You need to get some clothes and something to eat.”

“I’m all right,” I insisted. “Call the house and tell them
not to worry. I have to stay.”

He knew that once I set my mind on something, it was useless
to argue, so he compromised, insisting on phoning the house to arrange for the
clothes and food to be sent up. And, if I would be all right without him, he’d
go and see what he could do to assist the police. At least he didn’t seem to
think my theory about it being a deliberate attack was unreasonable. My claims
that Leo was murdered were met with less credibility but at least he listened.
His eyebrows lifted when I quietly told him about the poker and how Grant had
wrested it from me, claiming he would take it to the police.

David pulled me close and gently smoothed my hair back. “No
wonder you’ve been so strung out lately,” he murmured. “But you don’t have to
worry any longer. We’ll solve this thing together.” He sat back and looked into
my eyes seriously. “If what you say is true, I think you should consider
getting out of that house and coming to stay with Dad and me for a while. I don’t
want you anywhere near Fenton.”

I nodded with relief. It was a comfort to have someone else
shoulder the burden of doubt and suspicion for a while. Why hadn’t I turned to
David from the start?

After he left, I was content to sit quietly. I was only just
beginning to feel the throb of my multiple injuries, though the pills the nurse
gave me seemed to wrap me in a cloud of hollow apathy.

An hour later, Jenny’s mother was escorted down the hall to
the Intensive Care Unit while the same nurse gave me a brief summary of Jenny’s
condition and told me only the immediate family was allowed to visit. They were
preparing Jenny for the operation.

“I believe someone is on their way with some clothes and
food for you,” she said, smiling. “Mr. Lancaster wanted me to tell you.”

I nodded and thanked her. Probably Martha or Lottie would
bring my things. I’d be glad to change but doubted I’d be able to eat a bite.

It was Grant who came. He barged into the waiting room with
such ferocity I jumped. At the sight of him, my heart began to thump
erratically, fear filling my veins like lava.

“What’s going on here?” he demanded, his voice filling the
room. “I can’t get a coherent explanation from anyone! Are you all right,
Suzie? What’s happened to Jenny?”

As if you don’t know!
I clutched the blanket tighter.
“It’s Suzanna,” I corrected automatically. “And Jenny’s been shot.”

His eyes narrowed. “Shot? My God! How? By whom?”

He sat down next to me and it was all I could do not to
cower away. I told him the story again, my voice weary from the aftermath of
trauma combined with the mild sedatives.

I was too tired to fight when he escorted me out of the
hospital to his car. Something told me that he certainly wouldn’t try to kill
me in front of so many witnesses. To my credit, I protested feebly. I wanted to
stay until after the operation—until I was certain Jenny would be all right.
But Grant’s air of command swept my words aside and I knew if I didn’t go with
him willingly, he’d probably carry me out.

The young intern who’d tended my wounds met us at the
reception desk with a vial of tablets similar to those the nurse had pressed
upon me. He chauvinistically directed his conversation to Grant, indicating I
should be given one as needed to calm my nerves. In a lowered voice, he also
spoke to Grant about trauma counseling—at which point I stalked out.

Still huddled in the blanket, though dressed more
appropriately in a tracksuit, I eased my aching body into Grant’s car with a
compulsive glance at the back seat. The poker wasn’t there. I dismissed it for
the moment and opened the glove compartment, groping inside. Grant got in next
to me, started the engine and we left the darkness of the parking complex.

“What are you looking for?” he asked, noting my aimless
shuffling among the maps and miscellany.

“Cigarettes,” I said. “I know you keep some in here.”

He smiled. “Sorry. I’m trying to quit.”

I stared at him in frustration, yet when he glanced at me
and our eyes met, the irony of the situation overcame us simultaneously and we
began to laugh.

“I’m trying to quit too,” I sputtered inanely.

“We sure picked a great time, eh?” he said, still chuckling.

When we looked at each other again, it was as if a taut bow
had been loosened. The release of laughter eased the tension and I found I was
no longer certain Grant was the man I should fear. It was hard to mistrust him
when every facet of his face, every gesture, the sound of his voice, were all
so familiar and were ingrained in my life. How could I believe he could commit
murder?

“I didn’t do it, you know,” he said, adeptly reading my
mind. “I can’t blame you for suspecting me but I swear on my mother’s grave, I
didn’t do it.”

I merely looked at him. I knew I should ask about the poker
and demand an explanation but I expected he’d only lie to me again and I didn’t
want to deal with that right now. At the same time, I knew I wouldn’t rest
peacefully until a lot of questions were answered.

He pulled into the little corner store on the way out of
town and disappeared inside for a short moment. When he returned, he drove off
in a direction I knew wouldn’t take us to Beacon. Immediately, my suspicions
and fears returned.

“Where are we going?”

“Just a little detour,” he said as he swung the car off the
main road onto a dirt track.

We bumped along for about a mile until the track came to an
end on a grassy stretch of land bordering a lovely, deserted little lake. If I’d
been less weary and more in command of my feelings, I might’ve panicked. As it
was, I sat rigid, clutching the door handle, ready to leap out and run should
he make any attempt to touch me. But he turned off the engine and stared
straight ahead, his hands still on the wheel.

“We need to talk,” he said. When he looked at me, his eyes
were grave. “There’s a lot you don’t know and I think it’s time you did.”

He reached into his coat pocket and I drew back
instinctively. He smiled ruefully. “Don’t worry, it’s not a gun.” He produced a
packet of cigarettes. At the sight of them, I relaxed and half-smiled.

“Seems kind of silly to worry about cigarettes when you’ve
just spent the day dodging bullets,” he mumbled around one. He lit two, handed
me one and we puffed decadently for a moment. When he spoke again, he chose his
words carefully.

“I didn’t want it to come to this, Suzie. If I’d thought for
one moment you might be in danger…” He paused, frowning. “When your father was
killed, I knew right away it wasn’t an accident. There were attempts before—two
that I know of.”

I choked. “What? When?”

“Once about a year ago. Then again less than four months
ago. Both times, they were set up to look like accidents but Leo and I knew
better. There were letters and phone calls—threatening ones. Leo just wanted to
shrug them off but I insisted we go to the police.”