With Deadly Intent (14 page)

She patted his shoulder. “Just believe in yourself. What others think doesn't matter.”

“Really?” He began to pick at his coat sleeve again. “People tease me a lot you know.”

“Ignore them. You're the best pitcher in town, aren't you?”

“Yeah...”

“That's something no one else can say, right?”

He grinned. “Sure can't. I'm the best, that's what Miss Dorset always said. Once she took
my picture and they put it in the Lewistown paper.”

Amy's heart gave a bound. “When was that?”

He frowned and scraped his toe on the cement. “I can't remember.” He brightened. “She was
a real, nice lady. Helped my mom, when she got sick and ... and lots of other people
too.”

“Why did she leave White Bird?”

Donny squirmed and his gaze dropped to the floor. “Uh ... I gotta get to work now.”

In Lewistown, a doctor sutured the wound in her foot and gave her a tetanus and
penicillin injection. Afterwards they had two hours to squander until the plane departed
so she and Simon split up. Lewistown was the county seat, so Simon decided to speak to
the Town Clerk, while Amy went to the newspaper office. If some sort of scandal had
taken place in White Bird three years ago perhaps it'd be documented in one place or the
other.

Later, when they met at the airport, she told him of finding the article about Donny and
that it had had Elise Dorset's byline. In her search, she'd found other human interest
stories written by Elise, but nothing about White Bird that'd cause the reactions they'd
observed.

“Strange,” Simon said. “I wonder why she never mentioned her writing to me.”

“Perhaps she didn't feel hers was in the same class with yours.”

“I could have helped her. It would have given us a common bond. That's more than—"He
abandoned the thought and told her that he'd located records of Elise's birth and the
death of her parents and that was all.

He sat silent for several minutes before he stirred restlessly and said, “Some day, I'm
going to launch a full scale investigation of Wade Marchmont's operation. People who
have total power bring out the Don Quixote in me.

Amy grinned. “From the looks of you, your windmill got in some good licks, Quixote.”

He returned the grin. “Judge not by appearances my skeptical friend. My flesh may be
weak"—he thumped his chest—"but inside this battered body beats a heart as fierce as a
lion's.”

On the way back to Seattle, she and Simon slept most of the way. Their plane arrived at 7
p.m. She took Simon to his condo and carried his luggage inside.

“Amy...” Simon lifted his hands as if to put them on her shoulders. An uncertain
expression crossed his face and he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans
instead. “I couldn't have made this trip without you.” He raised his gaze to meet hers.
“That's not an easy admission to make. I've always prided myself on my independence.”

Amy smiled and shook his hand. “Welcome Brother Kittredge. I'm a lifetime member of the
‘I'd rather do it myself club.'”

He chuckled. “I'd never have guessed.”

Her cheeks warmed as he continued to hold onto her hand.

He cleared his throat. “The traffic's terrible. You're not planning on going to the
island tonight are you?”

She ran her tongue along her upper lip, saw the color deepen in his eyes and the heat in
her cheeks grew more intense. “No, I thought I...” Her mind went blank and she searched
wildly through her tangled thoughts for the ones she'd lost. “I think I'll wait until
morning.”

“Great. Go home and take a hot bath.” He smiled and she answered it, knowing they were
both picturing that awful motel. “And get a good rest. Call me if anything new comes
up.” He took out a three by five card and wrote down several numbers.

He moved with her to the door. “Thanks, Amy.”

She looked up at him. “What for?”

He frowned and gazed at some point above her head. “I don't quite know. But I think it's
for just being you.”

When she reached her apartment, she checked her answering machine and found she'd
forgotten to turn it on. She swore and called her father. He didn't answer and his
message phone wasn't on either. Prescott absent-mindedness must be hereditary. She
filled the bath tub, poured in her most expensive bath salts and soaked for half an
hour.

Afterwards, she donned pajamas and a robe and dialed her father again. Still no answer.
She looked at the clock—9 p.m.—he was almost always home by this time. She made a cup of
tea and dialed the number again. No answer. He could be out on a case. She roamed the
apartment fluffing pillows, dusting shelves, straightening books.

At ten, she dialed the island again. When her father didn't answer, she tried her aunt's
number. Perhaps, she would know where he'd gone. Oren answered on the first ring.

“I'm glad you called,” he said, as soon as she greeted him. “I've been sitting here
wondering how to reach you.”

A chill crept along her skin. “What's wrong?”

“B.J.'s been hurt.”

A quivering began inside her. “Hurt? How?”

“Someone found him on the road between your place and Lomitas Harbor about two hours ago.
He's badly injured and unconscious. The sheriff thinks a car hit him.”

“Where ... where is he?”

“He was airlifted to Harborview Medical Center in Seattle. Mom caught the eight o'clock
ferry, she should be there by now.”

Numb with shock, Amy thanked him, hung up, and got dressed. As she grabbed her coat from
the closet, the phone rang and her heart gave a fearful thump. Her hand shook as she
picked up the receiver and answered.

“Amy,” Simon said. “I've just heard the most wonderful news.”

“I'll call you in the morning,” she said quickly, “I'm on my way to the hospital.”

“Hospital? What for?”

“Dad's been injured. Oren says he may have been hit by a car. I've got to go, Simon. Talk
to you later.”

“I'll meet you at the hospital.”

“No, Simon...” she began, but the line had already gone dead.

Hit and run!
The latent implications of the catastrophe struck her full force as
she sped through the dark streets. Why had he been walking on that lonely stretch of
road at night? Had the act been accidental, or—she shied away from the word—deliberate?
Surely no one would have reason to want to hurt her father.

She pressed her fingers against her forehead and tried to think calmly. Would someone at
the hospital make certain his clothing was bagged properly to preserve any evidence? She
stopped at a phone booth, told the Crime Lab what had happened, and asked that someone
alert the emergency room staff.

When she arrived at the hospital, she found the emergency room packed. A woman with a
bruised face leaned against one wall, a couple of men with blackened eyes and split lips
glared at passersby. A man with a bloody head wound had wedged himself in a corner and
gone to sleep. Others, either waiting or with unseen problems, stood in groups of two or
three, some wept noisily, some silently, some muttered angry words.

A couple of jeaned and booted young men with bands around their heads shoved her aside
and strode toward the reception desk. In their wake staggered a sobbing girl wearing a
black nailhead jacket, short skirt, and purple leotards. Her electric blue hair stuck
straight up. Black eyeliner made teary spider tracks down her chalked face.

Amy observed the chaotic scene from where she stood beside the door. During the portion
of her internship she'd spent here, Friday and Saturday nights had always been a zoo.
Worst yet, a continual aroma of alcohol, vomit, and rank sweat seemed to pervade the
atmosphere. Yet, offensive as the smell was, she'd found the constant air of hostility
harder to bear.

Amy gradually worked her way to the desk, found someone she knew in charge and within a
few minutes she was on her way to the surgery floor. As she hurried down a corridor, she
caught sight of her aunt in the distance. Although only an inch separated them in
height, she always felt a child beside the tall, erect woman who'd been a mother to her
even in the years before her own mother had left her and her father.

Later, when she took pre-med, she'd read about the importance of bonding, and realized
there'd been no such relationship between her and her mother. As a consequence, when she
needed comfort, she'd always gone to Auntie Helen.

She loved her aunt's plain, ruddy face, the dusting of freckles on cheeks and nose, and
her wavy cap of graying reddish blonde hair. Despite the woman's angular body, she had a
wonderfully soft and ample bosom and Amy had lost track of the times she'd pillowed her
head there.

Helen rushed to her and wrapped her in an embrace. “You're home, thank heavens for that.”
A second generation Scot from Canada, she still rolled her r's.

The familiar soft burring sound brought tears to Amy's eyes, and she clung to her aunt.
“I'm so glad you're here.”

Helen held her at arm's length and gasped. “What happened to your face, child?”

“I'll tell you later. How's Dad?”

“Both legs are fractured and he has a concussion. He's in surgery.” Helen led her to a
thinly padded ivory Naugahyde settee.

As they huddled together, the details of Amy and Simon's visit to White Bird came out.
Amy left the bits she'd learned while at the Lewistown newspaper office until last.

Helen's face became set and expressionless. “Elise helped people and wrote human interest
stories?” She knotted her hands in her lap. “That's hard to be—”

Simon came through the door and she rose to greet him. He put out his hand to shake hers,
but she ignored it and embraced him as she had Amy. “Sorry I missed you on Wednesday,”
he said.

“My goodness,” she said, when she let him go. “You do look a sight. Sit down and tell me
how you've been.”

He stayed standing. “Helen, I'm to blame for what happened to Amy.” He swung to face Amy.
“And probably what's happened to B.J. too.”

Helen shook her head. “Simon, Simon, it's been four years since you stayed at our house
while you wrote that piece on the Senator, but you're still trying to carry the weight
of the world on your shoulders.”

Simon waved her remark aside and focused on Amy. “My editor liked the profile I did on
B.J. He bumped another article and ran it in the November edition. The magazine hit the
news stands this morning and the
Times
ran a blurb on the profile in the
afternoon edition.”

He clumped the length of the room and turned. “I didn't mention Oren's case, but Elise's
killer now knows the man viewing Lomitas Island's crime evidence is no ordinary medical
examiner.” He came to stand in front of her. “Amy, I may have set up your father.”

Saturday, October 29

At 2 a.m., the nurse let Amy see her father for a few minutes. She tiptoed in and peered
down at him. Bandages covered his head and both legs were in casts.

With his tremendous vitality stoppered, he looked fragile and as if he'd suddenly grown
old. All her life, he'd been her anchor. How could she get along if he ... Fear
tightened her chest until she could scarcely breathe.

She lay her hand over his. “How're you feeling, Dad?”

He opened his eyes, attempted a meager smile and failed. “I've been better.”

She leaned closer. “What happened?”

“Calder's new deputy called from the marina. Said a fishermen had found a body.” His
voice faded out and he stopped to swallow.

“Don't tire yourself. You can tell me tomorrow.”

He grasped her hand and struggled to raise himself. “You have to know now.”

“All right but you mustn't overdo it.” She eased him back on the pillow.

“My car wouldn't start, tried to call the sheriff's office, but the car phone didn't
work. Didn't want to fuss with the alarms to use the one in the house. Figured on a
Friday night there'd be people headed for the harbor, so I decided to hoof it.”

“Did you see who hit you?”

He shook his bandaged head and groaned at the movement. “Happened about a quarter of a
mile beyond Prescott's Byway. Damned thing came out of the darkness. No lights and going
like hell.”

She hesitated to ask the next question. This case had enough complications already. “Do
you think it was intentional?”

“Might have been. Phone Tom and find out if his deputy called me about a body.” He winced
and closed his eyes.

She patted his shoulder. “I'll take care of everything.” She leaned down and kissed him.
“Try to get some rest.”

When she returned to the waiting room, Simon rose and came toward her. “How is he?”

“Not too comfortable.” She glanced around. “Where's Helen?”

“She decided to spend what was left of the night at a friend's house.”

“Good. She looked awfully tired.”

“She said she'd see B.J. later in the day.”

Amy nodded and they started toward the elevator. On the way down, she repeated what her
father had told her.

Simon's face became grim. “It's all my fault. I never should have written that article.”

She grabbed his shoulders and gave him a shake. “Will you stop blaming yourself for every
thing that happens.”

When she and Simon exited from the building, half a dozen flash bulbs went off. “Good
God,” Simon muttered. “This is all we need.”

She swore under her breath, remembered their bruised faces and swore again. Reporters and
TV cameras closed in on them. Simon had said his article would give her visibility. It
had certainly done that all right. She'd met a number of the media while working with
the Crime Lab's mobile unit, but few of them had known her name—until now.