Ahead and to the right of the trail was a section of forest that consisted of orderly rows of pine trees, planted as a public works project during the Great Depression. The floor of the pine forest was a blanket of brown pine needles, free of underbrush, where Karen would be visible to her pursuer. On the other side of the pine forest was a trail Karen knew well, which would give her an advantage. She decided she had a big enough lead to make a dash across the open-floored pine forest before whoever was behind her could close the gap.
The cushion of dead needles felt soft on the scuffed soles of her feet as she sprinted through the ranks of pines, their trunks as straight and evenly spaced as prison bars. The wind was buffeting the treetops, and the air was filled with brown needles and pinecone detritus. When she was almost to the edge of the open-floored forest, Karen yielded to the temptation to look back over her shoulder. Gray windbreaker was behind her, about the length of two city blocks. Before she got a good look at him, her toe found a half-buried root and she went down so hard she saw glowing dots before her eyes. Reflexively, she had gotten her hands out to break her fall. As she got to her feet, she realized that were it not for the sponginess of the bed of pine needles, she probably would have broken her wrists.
So much for looking back.
Once on the trail, Karen struggled to pace herself and to remember the landmarks that Jake had pointed out whenever he led her through the woods to their special place on the bluff, where there was a giant oak tree that she knew how to climb. If she could reach the tree, it would swallow her up without a trace.
Here was the fluorescent pink surveyor’s stake where you took the left fork. There was the charred remnant of the trunk of an aboriginal pine, the victim of a nineteenth-century fire. Take a sharp right around the next curve in the trail.
Exhausted, panting, Karen could tell her rubbery legs were slowing involuntarily. Her throat and lungs burned. The rustling and thumping on the trail behind her were getting closer. Twice, landmarks on the trail failed to materialize when anticipated, and Karen feared she was lost. But Jake’s instruction proved true, and just as Karen was ready to give up, she saw the base of an oak tree, twelve feet across, the weathered steps of an abandoned deer stand barely visible, embedded in thick, gnarled bark. Could she climb a tree in a straight skirt? Only one way to find out.
She scrambled up until she was on the fifth tier of branches, certain that the leaves concealed her completely. Then she quieted her breathing to the extent she could, and listened.
The footfalls from the trail below became sporadic, then ceased. Trying with all her might not to pant audibly, Karen looked around, moving only her eyeballs. She could see nothing in any direction but green leaves, except for a sight line down the trunk of the tree. Then she saw something that nearly stopped her heart. The wooden steps nailed to the trunk of the tree, so well camouflaged by weathering and the overgrowth of bark, had bright, eye-catching splotches of what looked like red paint on them. Her blood! She looked at the toe she had stubbed. It resembled a diced beet. Her nylons were shredded, her feet badly scraped. The adrenaline flooding her senses had masked the fact, but now that she noticed, she was in considerable pain. She repressed the impulse to cry out.
Another red splotch appeared on the tree trunk, and Karen realized her toe was dripping. She rotated her foot so it would drip on the branch where she was squatting. The rustling from the trail had stopped. If whoever was down there didn’t see the blood, he would think that she took a turn that he had missed or else jumped off the bluff, or vanished into thin air.
A mosquito lit on Karen’s face, but she tolerated the bite, afraid to move, let alone swat. Another landed on the back of her hand. Go ahead, you little bastards, drink up. Then she heard a loud crack! that made her start so violently it shooed the mosquitoes. Another crack! It sounded like . . . gunfire. Jesus.
She had planned to use her cell phone to call for help as soon as she was certain gray windbreaker was out of earshot. Not wanting to waste a minute, she reached into her pocket to pull the phone out.
It wasn’t there. Christ. Must have fallen out when I tripped.
Karen had no idea how long she sat, motionless, after hearing the last sound that could possibly have been caused by the person in the gray windbreaker. By the time she ventured movement it was dim twilight. There was no chance she could find her way out of the woods in the dark, no chance she could walk that far with her injured toe. And even if by some miracle she could, would gray windbreaker be waiting for her at her car or lying in ambush somewhere along the trail? To make matters worse, the wind had died down and the combination of dusk and stillness had brought the mosquitoes out in droves. They were feasting on her. It would only be worse on the ground, so she had no option but to try to escape the swarm by climbing up.
When she got above the canopy of the forest, the bugs thinned out and the terror of the previous hour loosened its grip enough for her to observe the view. The surface of the lake was glass. The overcast sky to the east was tinted orange from the glow of the city. To the west, lightning danced along the horizon.
The branches around her were matted with a dense nest of grape ivy, the vines as thick as garden hose. Almost sixteen years earlier on their wedding day, Jake had shown her this tree and how they could lie down in the natural hammock formed by the sturdy vines. She lay down now and tried to think of that day, and the happiness and security she had felt then. But her conversation with Amy came back to her. “Get out of my house,” Amy had screamed. Karen had felt shame at the time, but had she really said or done anything that rude? She had thought Amy’s outburst was triggered by the mention of her mother’s death, but now that Karen reflected on it, Amy had started getting edgy when Karen asked about the chocolate. Hard to know if that meant anything.
Between the throbbing of her toe and the pounding of her heart, she was certain she would not sleep a wink the whole night, but she closed her eyes and tried to calm herself.
Karen heard a siren in the distance. Would Jake call the police when she failed to show up at home? How would her boys fare without her for the night? Or she, without them?
This time of year, dawn followed dusk by less than nine hours. Just hold on, she told herself. Just hold on.
PART III
“I don’t worry about a thing, ’cause
I know nothin’s gonna be alright.”
–MOSE ALLISON
CHAPTER
21
Moving swiftly along a curving road through a dark, menacing jungle. Cannons booming in the background; war had broken out. The road became a river, her car a small, flimsy boat that quickly sank. She fought to keep her head above water, but her arms and legs seemed paralyzed and the current dragged her down. Under the surface, the water was clear, beautiful and warm. She looked to the side and saw Jake swimming beside her, smiling placidly as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. He reached out to her. In his hand was a tiny yellow fish, elegant and shining. Karen took the fish in her hand and it became McKinley, looking exactly as he did when newly bom. McKinley said something; she thought he was trying to warn her, but his words came out like bubbles in a watercooler. Then an octopus was on her, its tentacles grabbing at her face, the little suction cups cold on her skin. The bubbles from McKinley’s mouth became words: “Are you dreaming?” She realized the answer was yes. All she had to do to free herself from the octopus was wake up, and she would be safe in her bed at home.
Karen opened her eyes. She was awake, but she was not in her bed. Her bed was not full of grape ivy, last time she checked. The octopus was still on her face. No, it was ... rain-drops. Where the hell was she? Then she remembered. Cripes, I’m up in the goddamn oak tree, and it’s raining.
Lightning lit up the treetops like midday, the crack of thunder coming less than a second later. Karen was at the top of the tallest tree at the highest point in the area, and an electrical storm was right on top of her. She was jolted into action.
&nbs
p; When she tried to get up, her body screamed at her to lie back down. She had injured her neck a couple of years before, and it complained loudly whenever she slept on it funny. The vine hammock was not exactly an orthopedic mattress. The pain from her toe shot up her aching leg all the way to her hip. The total exhaustion that had put her to sleep felt like hands holding her down in the vines.
Another lightning bolt, closer yet. “Got to get out of here,” she said.
She worked her way awkwardly down the oak tree, using two hands and one foot, sparing her stubbed toe any contact with the rough bark. Perched on the lowest branch, she puzzled over how to manage the steps, which were nothing more than weathered strips of two-by-four, overgrown with bark. It seemed impossible. Maybe the best thing would be to stay where she was. A flash of lightning and a simultaneous ear-splitting crash of thunder argued persuasively against remaining in the tree.
Karen turned so that the front of her body was against the tree and gripped the bottom branch with both hands. Her arms shook as she lowered herself, belly scraping on bark, down to where her one good foot rested on a step.
Okay, now for the hard part. A one-legged deep knee bend to squat down on the narrow step. Grab the tree bark with both hands as firmly as possible, lift the foot and quickly hop down to the next step . . .
The fall lasted about half a second. Her back hit the earth with a thud. She could not breathe. Near panic now, she was certain she was dying. Then she remembered a sports announcer describe a football player as “having the wind knocked out of him.” Was that what this was? Her breath came back with a moan that sounded like a rusty drawbridge.
She lay still long enough to be reasonably sure her neck and back weren’t broken, then eased over onto her side. The ground was cold and wet, and smelled like almonds. Several flaccid earthworms were beached beneath the fronds of a nearby patch of bracken, along with a black rectangular object that looked out of place. Lightning flashed, illuminating the black object. Karen recognized it: her cell phone. It must have fallen out of her pocket when she climbed the tree, and the ferns had concealed it.
Karen dragged herself to the phone and dialed home.
“Where are you?” Jake answered.
“I’m under the oak tree on the bluff.”
“Are you okay? What are you doing there?”
“Yes, but I can’t walk very well. And I’ll tell you later.”
“I’ll call an ambulance.”
“No! I just stubbed my toe badly. Get here as soon as you can, please.”
Karen closed her eyes. When she opened them, again expecting to be in her bed at home, she was gazing at a pair of dirty, wet running shoes. She looked up. Looming over her was the silhouette of a large man, reaching for her with hands the size of baseball mitts. The man spoke.
“Our bed would be more comfortable, sweetheart.”
“Jake?”
“Me Tarzan, you Jane.”
“Fuck, am I glad to see you. Get me out of here, now. What did you do with the baby?”
“Left him with Anne Delaney. I think he’ll be safe there. She’s got five deadbolt locks on her door.”
“And an alarm system. Anne was almost raped once.”
Jake had brought a flashlight and miraculously found Karen’s shoes on the trail. Her left foot, with the stubbed toe, could not be shod, so the pair did a three-legged walk in the rain all the way back to the logging road. On the way, Karen explained how she had come to be stranded on the bluff. She tried hard not to cry as she watched the concern on Jake’s face.
Since both of their vehicles had manual transmissions and Karen could not use a clutch because of her toe, they decided to abandon the Volvo for the time being.
Jake kept a beach towel in the trunk of the Mustang with his fishing tackle, which Karen used to dry her hair while Jake drove. The windshield wipers beat out a rhythm uncannily synchronistic with the Lonnie Brooks tape playing on the car stereo.
“When was the first time you noticed this dude tailing you?”
“He pulled in behind me when I went to the Sleepy Time Motel. That was about seven.”
“You were alone, I take it.”
Karen gave him a disapproving look. “I went to confirm that Shari Billick was with Arthur the second time he signed in there.”
“Was she?”
“Yep.”
“Then the guy in the SUV followed you to the Winslows’.”
“Right.”
“I have a theory,” said Jake. “Whoever killed Lorraine Winslow might be aware of your snooping and worried that you’re getting too close to something. This might have been an attempt to get you to mind your own business.”
“I thought of that,” said Karen. “Or it could be that I’ve made someone with a violent nature angry at me.”
Now Jake gave Karen a reproachful look. “Who’d you tick off this time?”
Karen told Jake about Duane Billick’s reaction to the news she had used to full advantage in the settlement negotiations, that Shari had been with Arthur after the harassment claim had already been dropped on the hospital. She also mentioned how Dr. Treacher, the neurologist with the spectacularly high mortality rate, had gotten his back up for being placed under suspicion in Lorraine’s death, and then being challenged by Karen for exploiting Lou Gehrig’s disease. But she doubted whether the overweight Treacher could run as fast as her pursuer.
“Then there’s Clifford Gooch,” she said. “A dangerous schizophrenic I helped put in the loony bin a while back. He’s on the loose, and he has a history of threatening people.”
Jake flipped the cassette tape in the car stereo. His hands were steady. Karen looked at her own. She was trembling like a Parkinson’s patient. She tried to ignore her condition and listen to the music. The earthy, bayou-flavored sound of the blues guitar seemed to harmonize with the summer rain dripping off the dense foliage.
“Do you think one of those guys did in Lorraine?” said Jake.
“Possibly. Treacher was her attending physician. He certainly had the opportunity, and he would have had the medical knowledge to carry it out. Gooch was on the unit with Lorraine back in May and was in the hospital when she died. He used to teach science. He might have been able to pull it off, too. Duane Billick? I don’t see him with the opportunity or the means.”
“His wife works in the hospital, doesn’t she?” Jake was quick, thought his grateful wife.
“Hmm. I should find out if he has a black SUV.”
“Well, don’t go spying on Duane Billick, at least not alone. If the guy who chased you up the tree is trying to warn you off, maybe you should listen.”
Lonnie Brooks crooned softly of lost love, accompanied by the beating of the wipers and the tattoo of rain on the roof. Karen was silent.
“Discretion is the better part of valor,” said Jake. “Fools rush in . . .”
He looked at Karen. She was asleep.
SHE TRIED TO avoid attracting attention as she crutched her way down the hall to her office at Van Dyke ~ Eddington Wednesday morning. The big toe of her left foot was wrapped in an enormous bandage; it appeared she had a lemon stuffed in her sock. The crutches Jake had found in the attic were old wooden ones left over from a sprained ankle he had sustained years ago. He used the tools he’d received for his birthday to saw them off to fit Karen. She struggled clumsily to hold her briefcase while using the crutches. The muscles in her legs complained at each step.
Adding to her desire not to be noticed were the insect bites that covered her face and hands in red welts. Her father would flip when he saw her. The night before, when she and Jake got home after midnight, there was a message from Gene asking his daughter to accompany him to his doctor’s office at noon on Wednesday. Unable to drive, Karen had called her father that morning and asked him to pick her up at work. Jake had driven her to work, McKinley in his infant seat squalling furiously.
Before she reached her office, Trevor Van Dyke’s secretary stopped Karen and direct
ed her into the name partner’s comer office. Mr. Van Dyke wished to see her “first thing” when she got in. Karen wondered whether she was about to set the record for shortest tenure at a law firm.
Trevor’s office was not decorated in the traditional manner Karen had expected, but in a tasteful Scandinavian modern style that she knew was expensive to bring off correctly, with simplicity and a harmonious balance of functionality and comfort. The walls were hung with modern art that looked like it belonged in a museum. Was that an original Miro?
Directly in front of Van Dyke’s desk were two leather and wood chantal chairs, one occupied by Shirley Roach. Karen sat down in the other and set her crutches on the floor, which was made of unstained teak.
“What happened to you?” said Trevor. Karen divulged only that she had stubbed her toe and Trevor moved on to a different topic.
“Shirley and I were going over our discussion at the marketing committee meeting on Monday.” Trevor interlaced his fingers over his corpulent belly and leaned back in his chair. He tapped his thumbs together. “It may have been unfair for us to ask you to pitch the legal audit to Shoreview Memorial. We’re sorry about that.”
This was a pleasant surprise. Maybe she had misjudged Trevor and Shirley.
“Being a woman, Shirley understands the feelings stuff better than I do,” he continued. “She figured out that you probably have friends at Shoreview Memorial that you would feel— what was the word you used, Shirl?”
“Tacky.”
“Yes, tacky giving a sales pitch. Especially if you thought they knew that you knew they didn’t really need what you were selling. Right?”
“Well, I suppose I’d feel tacky because it would be tacky.”
“Yes, well, Shirl pointed out that you wouldn’t have the same problem pitching the legal audit to the other hospital in town, where you don’t have personal relationships and all that.”
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