Ultra Violet Part 14

I'd been wondering where Keegan was. And Dawn. With an inward sigh, I settled in for a wait. They hadn't strung the red lights yet and it was dark and cold, rain pounding on the roof.

Brett started telling me all the reasons he hadn't made it to tonight's game. I listened with half an ear, wishing I'd timed my arrival a little better.

A flash of light strobed through. White. Then red.

"f.u.c.k," a male voice whispered from somewhere outside the front door. "The cops."

I was on my feet and shooting downstairs to the backyard before my brain was in full gear. My heart jerked wildly in my chest. Behind me I heard the kids b.u.mbling around and swearing, running into each other, but I was out the back and across the yard to Social Security before you could say, "Halt, you're under arrest."

I threw my purse over the fence, then climbed with an agility that surprised me later, practically vaulting over the top. As I've said, fleeing is my first response and I'm d.a.m.n good at it. I dropped into the gushy muck on Social Security's side of the chain-link. Their yard was a mire that sucked at my shoes. Glancing back, I saw flashing illumination from Beachlake, an aurora borealis lighting up the area. Quickly, I scooped up my purse and hurried to the farthest side of their boathouse. Their canoe lay upside down, exactly as I'd seen it from Dwayne's dock. I flipped it over, rain running down my neck.

I set my purse down, searching the canoe's interior. No oars. Panicked, I turned around in a rapid circle, scanning the surrounding grounds. Nothing. Tiptoeing to the end of the yard, which ended at a concrete skirt, I peered around the wall of the boathouse into its yawning black mouth. The skirt turned into a narrow concrete ledge that ran around the inside edge of the building. An old motorboat, suspended by canvas straps, groaned slightly as my hand touched the side of it for balance. It rocked gently. I steadied it and tried to get a handle on my rapid breathing.

The oars were hung on the wall. I squeezed inside the boathouse and grabbed them. One slipped from my hand and clattered to the concrete, sounding like gunfire. Swooping it up, I morphed myself back around the edge of the boathouse, daring one glance toward the rear yard of Do Not Enter. Kids were running stealthily across Pet Cemetery toward Rebel Yell and Tab A/Slot B. The lights still flashed and then I heard the first whine of a siren from the direction of Lake Chinook.

I could not be caught.

With an effort I shoved the canoe into the water. It splashed loudly. I held on to one end, leaning over the water, sure I was going to fall in. Precariously balancing, I grabbed my purse with my free hand. After a moment the canoe steadied and I stepped inside, wobbling a bit. I sat down quickly. Glanced up at Social Security. Lights blazed on.

Oh G.o.d. They'd heard me.

I paddled west, quietly but with an inner urgency. Hurry, hurry, hurry. I could practically see Josh Newell's face. I pictured handcuffs. A ride in the back of his police car for real.

I dipped the oars as carefully as I could, opting for silence over speed. My jaw was clenched. My head bent to the driving rain. I slipped past other houses along Beachlake Drive, trying to calculate where the road dead-ended. It's hard to tell because the houses continue past Beachlake's final cul-de-sac, their access from a tangle of roads that delta off North Sh.o.r.e Loop. If someone hoped to follow me, they would have to head back to a main road and find their way to wherever I decided to pull in.

I hoped to G.o.d they hadn't seen me.

But if they had...My mind was filled with images of a Lake Chinook prowler, silently creeping along the narrow roadways, tracking my progress.

The siren grew louder and louder, its wooOOOOOO ooooooo-OOOOOOoooo splitting the still night air.

I kept moving west. My vague plan had been to eventually circle around and cross the bay to Dwayne's. But I couldn't make myself do it. Too exposed. Too dark. Too dangerous.

I struggled with the oars, clumsy and awkward. It felt like I was treading water. My teeth chattered, more from fear than cold, though there was plenty of that, too. The rain beat on me. I had to shake it out of my eyes. I thought about my car, parked on the street. Were they searching it? It could belong to any of the residents on Beachlake, couldn't it? My purse was still over my shoulder, banging against me as I oared, but I wouldn't set it down. I would rather drown with it than let it get away from me.

I hugged the seawall, moving steadily away from Social Security. About six houses down, I glanced back. Were the police after me? Did they know I'd taken the canoe? I stopped oaring and simply slid my hand along the seawall, propelling the canoe toward the end of Beachlake. Hurry, hurry, hurry. Sweat ran down my back.

A loud alarm sounded from the house I'd just pa.s.sed, one of those spiraling screams that blare over and over again. I practically jumped from the boat and my gasp was a bitten off scream. My skin lifted in fear. Any minute I expected a searchlight to pin me in its glare.

Lights burst on in more houses along Beachlake. I gave up stealth and oared like mad to the footbridge that marked the end of the cul-de-sac. The bridge crossed over a tiny stream that fed into the bay. I kept paddling past the footbridge, past another house that wasn't on Beachlake, past another. Get away, I whispered inside my own head. Get away.

The siren cut off with an abrupt chirp.

I was four houses past the end of Beachlake Drive, four houses into the next neighborhood. I didn't know what street their addresses were, or how one would find them. I pulled up to a house that looked empty. It had a yawning boathouse that was four poles topped by a slanted metal roof, kind of like a carport for boats. There was no boat in residence, so I slid the canoe under its shelter, listening to the rain pound and ping on its hard roof. There was a rope at the end of the canoe, and I tied it carefully to a rusted cleat, then stepped onto a narrow dock whose boards were rotted and soft. My legs shook. I was soaked to the bone. Carefully I peeked from beneath my shelter toward the dark, gloomy house. Not one light. And the two houses on either side weren't waking to the alarm, either. I hoped to high heaven this house was as abandoned as it seemed. Carefully, treading as lightly as I could, I edged my way through the thick laurel hedge on the home's eastern side, looking for access to the front.

There was a wrought-iron gate between me and freedom. My heart nearly stopped until I realized it wasn't locked. It creaked as I pulled it open, so I squeezed through and left it ajar.

Head bent, I scurried forward, my purse held tight to my side. My Lake Chinook sweatshirt had been worse than useless in this weather; it stuck to me, a sodden deadweight. I found my cell phone, comforted by its welcoming light, as I put a call into Dwayne.

"Hey," Dwayne answered, obviously recognizing my number.

"Can you come get me?" I whispered.

"Where are you?" He was all business.

"Not sure. You know where Beachlake Drive ends? The houses that are further west, but you reach them by some access road? That's the road I'll be on."

"I hear sirens."

"No s.h.i.t."

"They're coming from Social Security."

My heart clutched. Had they seen me steal their canoe? "Better hurry, Dwayne."

He clicked off and was gone.

I counted it a blessing, practically a miracle, that he'd gotten his full leg cast off and was more mobile. Mobile enough, anyway, to drive his surveillance car.

I reached the road, which was covered by a canopy of fir branches high overhead, both from the trees lining the road and from a screen of Douglas firs that marched up the hill, nearly obscuring houses farther up. Pinp.r.i.c.ks of light showed through the foliage, like tiny stars, illumination from the houses hanging on the cliffside with views of Lakewood Bay. I trudged along, moving ever farther west, away from Beachlake Drive but also from Dwayne's cabana on the other side of the bay. The road curved to the left and circled to the right and I finally came to where it T'd into North Sh.o.r.e.

There are no streetlights along these curvy lanes and for that I was grateful. I stayed outside the circle of illumination offered by a lantern on a stone entry post at the end of a drive and shivered convulsively. I could have been the only person on the planet. It was dark, wet, cold and miserable.

I heard a car's engine, quiet, and the glow of headlights approaching from around a corner. I stepped back and pressed myself to the side of a detached garage, sliding around to the back as the car neared, keeping myself well out of detection. The car purred past me but I didn't dare look immediately. I managed a peek as its taillights turned the next corner. A black, unmarked police car. Jesus. Haven't I said the Lake Chinook police have nothing to do? Haven't I? They were treating Operation Teen Drinking like an FBI sting.

Five minutes later another car's engine sounded, also quiet. I kept to my hiding place and hoped the homeowners didn't wake and see a figure crouching behind the back of their garage.

This time the car that cruised by was a beige sedan. I punched autodial for Dwayne's number. He answered on the first ring.

"You just went past me," I said. "A police car's somewhere ahead of you."

"I'm stopping."

I ran from my hiding place and hurried to the car. Dwayne had pulled to the edge of the road and I jumped into the pa.s.senger side. He was already in motion, smoothly moving forward. We drove around North Sh.o.r.e for a quarter of a mile, then took a turn that eventually landed us on Iron Mountain Boulevard. As we headed back toward Lake Chinook proper we pa.s.sed the unmarked prowler going the other way.

"The lights are on at Social Security."

I nodded jerkily. "I'm freeeezeeing." I couldn't get the word out through teeth that had a mind of their own.

"There's a jacket in the back. Can you reach it?" He was trying to twist around but it wasn't easy for him.

"Uh-huh."

"You all right?"

"I'm ohhhhkayyy." I grabbed the denim jacket with clammy hands that scarcely had feeling in them. I wrapped it around my shoulders. It smelled like Dwayne.

"Your makeup's kind of scary," he said.

I refused to give in to the almost pathological desire to look in a mirror. Instead I told him what he could do to himself in vivid terms. He grinned, and I instantly felt better.

We made it back to Dwayne's without incident. The alarm from Social Security had finally been silenced and activity had diminished. We kept Dwayne's lights off but looked through the binoculars and his sliding gla.s.s doors. Through the bay window on Social Security's main floor we could see an older gentleman in a robe and pajamas talking heatedly with two policemen.

"I don't know what that's about," Dwayne said. "But I think the wife went to the hospital. The ambulance showed up, lights flashing, no siren."

"So it wasn't a raid on Do Not Enter."

"No. Kids started pouring onto the backyard as soon as the ambulance showed. Someone must have reported them running, because the police came but the kids were gone. Then the house alarm started."

"Maybe the old guy thought someone was stealing a canoe from him," I ventured, hugging Dwayne's coat against me.

"Hunh," Dwayne said.

"Yeah. Hunh."

We watched for a while more. The police left and the old guy changed his clothes and headed to his car. I felt a little nervous for him driving through this miserable weather, but his wife was at the hospital, so I guess that's what happens.

Dwayne put me in his shower to warm me up. I tossed my clothes in a pile on the floor. Behind the shower curtain, I heard the bathroom door open and stood frozen in place.

"Got some clothes here for ya," he said, and let himself back out.

I peered around the shower curtain. I could see a pair of gray sweatpants and one of his denim shirts.

I scrubbed my face and stood with my head under the hot spray until my muscles began to thaw. It took a while before I felt warm enough to turn off the taps and step from the shower. I toweled off and put on my cold, wet underwear before sliding into Dwayne's clothes. A few minutes later I padded barefoot to the kitchen, where he was leaning against the counter, watching coffee brew, a stream of dark liquid bubbling into the coffeemaker's gla.s.s pot.

"How do I look?" I asked.

He examined me from the top of my wet head to the peek of my toes beneath the folds of his sweats. "Warmer."

"I was really afraid I'd be caught contributing to the delinquency of minors."

"You wanna give this up?" He poured me a cup, handing it to me, our fingers brushing.

"You mean drinking beer with teenagers, running from the police, stealing canoes, freezing in the rain?" I drank the coffee, feeling it run hot down my throat. "I don't know. Dawn wasn't there yet, and neither was Keegan. You think they'll still meet at Do Not Enter after this? I wouldn't."

"It's a perfect place for them. Yeah, I think they'll be there next week."

"They'd be nuts."

"They're teens. They don't have many options. It's parent-free and has a roof against the rain."

"The police know about it."

"Do they?" Dwayne pulled a bottle of Jack Daniel's from the cupboard above his head and raised it up to me in a question. I held my cup out to him and he gave me a liberal dose. "I think the kids left before they were raided. The cops responded to a call from the neighbors when they saw them running over their yards. I'm not sure any of 'em were collared."

"So, what are you saying?"

He made a face. "I don't know. Maybe it's time for Hal Jeffries to put away his binoculars."

I should have been thrilled to hear it. Should have wanted to dance in the streets. But Dwayne, blast him, had hooked me on Dawn's problems and I wanted to bring down Keegan Lendenhal in a bad way. I murmured something about that being a good idea, finished my coffee, then asked Dwayne to drive me to my car.

It turned out the old guy had simply hit his home alarm by accident after he called for an ambulance for his wife. The police followed up on the alarm and Mr. Social Security had been so upset over everything he'd bawled them out. They had not, apparently, chased the high school kids. Mrs. Social Security had suffered chest pains and a minor heart attack and was home by the end of the weekend, apparently okay.

I, on the other hand, came down with the sniffles after my damp and chilly escape. Sure, okay, you can't catch a cold from the cold; you catch a cold from another person. But if you're around people who manhandle you and get too close, and their friends are around, too, and they're all touching each other and packing into tight places, then your chances of catching a cold greatly increase. And then if you run around in the dark, damp cold you might get your resistance down and voila, you got yourself a cold.

I made it through the rest of the weekend wrapped in a blanket with The Binkster pressed to my side on the living room couch, watching whatever came on TV. I learned to my horror that Binks was nearly out of food. I had enough stale saltines to last me a good week and a half, but I wasn't sure what to do about my dog, so in the end I called my friend Cynthia for help.

The great thing about her is she can take orders, mine being, buy something cheap and low-cal for The Binkster. I gave her the name of my usual brand and she showed up with a hefty bag of the stuff. She also picked up some mochis, a frozen j.a.panese dessert that is basically a ball of ice cream enclosed in a rice gum so that you can hold it in your hands. This set Binks dancing on her hind legs and twirling. I wasn't sure if dogs can catch people germs, but I figured I wouldn't take a chance sharing with her. I just gave her teensy bits and put the rest back in the freezer. Binks pathetically sat down in front of the refrigerator and whined. Cynthia couldn't stand it and pulled out a few bites more.

"You're spoiling her," I said, my voice all cloggy and dull.

"I brought you something, too," she said, digging into the large grocery bag she'd dumped on the counter.

I hadn't asked for anything for myself because I'm old school enough to want to get well without the aid of over-the-counter drugs. I'm so d.a.m.ned drug sensitive that the least little thing can make me stupid, crazy and seemingly on a bender.

But Cynthia pulled out a quart of some goldish liquid. "Chicken soup," she told me. "From Zeke and Jake's Deli."

"Cool," I said with enthusiasm. This sounded more like "Gull," but I think Cynthia got the message.

She stuck around long enough to serve me a bowl of soup and a couple of slices of baguette smeared with b.u.t.ter, but she tried to stay out of range of my germs. I just thanked my lucky stars that I had friends who actually liked me and wanted to do nice things for me.

I'd been all set to spend the afternoon sniffing and feeling sorry for myself, but Cynthia's soup and the baguette gave me enough energy to go over my notes on the Hatchmere case again, adding and tweaking and bringing them up to date. I swept my hardwood floor clean, pausing for long draughts of water from my kitchen tap, and then I plumped up the pillows on my couch and made the place presentable instead of some nest of sick germs. After doing a check for dog fur I hauled out the awkward vacuum cleaner, a canister type that I drag along like a ball and chain, and gave all the furniture a thorough cleaning. Finished, I found I was in a sweat, so I showered and redressed in fresh jeans and a light brown sweater. I felt almost human as I was combing the water from my hair, except my nose was red, swollen and dripping.

My cell phone vibrated noisily and I hurried to the front room to answer it. I'd left it on my coffee table and it was spinning around like it was trying to make itself dizzy when I s.n.a.t.c.hed it up. Caller ID was unavailable, which generally means: wrong number. However, I had a lot of callbacks from people who might or might not have blocked their numbers.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Is this Jane Kelly?" a male voice rumbled. There was some kind of distortion on the line that made the timbre go in and out.

"Last I looked. And you are?"

"Vince Larrabee."

My mouth formed an O. I decided he must be outside and that was what was creating the audible interference.

"Durbin said you wanted to talk to me about the wedding day burglaries."

"The Wedding Bandits."

He didn't respond. Maybe he was one of those who obstinately ignored any name the press might ascribe to the culprits.

"I don't know what I can tell you that hasn't been printed already," he said, and I heard that tiny bit of judgment in his voice. Clearly he was doing his duty and trying to fob me off before things went any further.

"Would you mind if we got together and I just picked your brain a bit?" I asked. Lame, lame, lame. From what I'd gleaned, the guy wouldn't want some wet-behind-the-ears private investigator d.o.g.g.i.ng his heels.

"Pick my brain?"

"I could meet you. Let me buy lunch." I held my breath.