Eye Sleuth

by Hazel Dawkins

  It was Lanny’s attacker right here in the rose garden––he hadn’t left after all. The man raised his arm high, some sort of thick stick in his hand.

  “No!” I screamed and lunged forward.

  Horrie, oblivious to the danger behind him, was startled by my mad rush and stood staring at me. Before I could reach Horrie, the stick crashed down on the back of his head and he dropped to the ground without a sound.

  Now I was face-to-face with the attacker. I kicked out, deliberately aiming for the man’s groin but missed. He swung the stick at me. I twisted to one side and the blow landed on my shoulder with painful force. I danced wildly to avoid another blow and kicked at his knees. Yes, contact! I heard a gasping grunt but I hadn’t slowed him down. The stick swung again and smashed onto the side of my head. My legs buckled. Through the pain I registered that the eyes of Lanny’s attacker were the chilling gray of cold slate. The resemblance to Matt Wahr was striking. Why hadn’t he left? I slid away from that puzzling thought into nothing.

  When I came round, velvety darkness was complete. A leather strap gagged me and my hands and feet were bound tight. My hands were tied in front of me and I was able to reach up and feel my head to check for damage where the blow had landed. The blood around the bump was a sticky trickle, not quite dry, so I hadn’t been out long. I didn’t have a headache, so I didn’t think the blow was serious. What was serious was the situation. I was wedged on my side against the grassy edge of the rose bed. I took inventory. The first blow had been glancing and my shoulder hurt a little, the other blow landed with some force, but nothing was broken, I didn’t have a headache and I was thinking clearly. What about Horrie? The nauseating sound when he was hit worried me.

  Now I’d seen Slate Eyes clearly, one fact was clear: he looked too much like Matt Wahr for it to be a coincidence. Too old to be a son, perhaps a brother? Horrie thought he was a rep with a company that made vision therapy equipment, so that was one puzzling question answered and it explained why he was at the conference. But what possible connection could there be to Lanny? Why had she been attacked? Obviously, something in this man’s mind linked Lanny to Gus Forkiotis, tenuous perhaps but there again was the optometric angle and the conference that Lanny had asked Gus to address. Horrie and I had been deliberately ambushed. The attack on me had to be because I’d seen Slate Eyes at the National Arts Club. Was Horrie attacked because he was in the wrong place at the right time? Mary Sakamoto’s warning of danger echoed in my mind. The why was still ever elusive but her prediction of trouble had come true over and over.

  I lay staring at my side view of the night sky. My stomach heaved now and then. God, I hoped I wasn’t about to throw up. In a movie, I’d have wriggled free of bonds by now. Welcome to the real world, Yoko. I lay on the damp earth longing to hug Lanny one more time and to tell Auntie Ai she was the best Auntie anyone ever had. Someone bent over me. I shut my eyes.

  “You and your buddy Forkiotis, who’s calling the shots now?” A kick landed on my side. Nasty but not lethal. “You optometrists think you’re so smart. Put your pants on one leg at a time, don’t you? Who does Forkiotis think he is, giving evidence at court cases? It’s bogus, all of it.”

  The bitter words brought a staggering answer to part of the puzzle. At last, clarity about some links. Dr. Forkiotis, wearing his Expert Witness hat in some court, had roused this devil. Gus traveled all over the U.S. at the request of state prosecuting attorneys so it was hard to know where the offending case had been prosecuted. A second kick landed. Dazzling lights burst behind my eyes and the world vanished.

  When I regained consciousness, I was jolting sack-like over the man’s shoulder, flopping against his back. The leather gag was sodden with saliva, a real gourmet treat. I wasn’t dead but escape was a fragile concept. Where were the lovers out for a moonlight stroll in the garden? Better yet, how about a policeman making rounds? I couldn’t remember if the rose garden had gates at the entrance. If it did, someone might come to lock up and spot what was happening.

  We didn’t go far. I was dropped carelessly on the ground. Swiveling my eyes a fraction, I could see rose bushes close by but tree branches blotted out much of the night sky but at least I knew we hadn’t left the garden. When Horrie and I had arrived, I’d noticed a hut flanked by trees at the far side of the enclosure. Was it a public lavatory? No lack of them in Bournemouth.

  “Don’t go anywhere.” The voice mocked, gloating at the control, the license to hurt.

  The sound of his footsteps faded into silence. I strained to look around, hoping to see Horrie. No sign of him. Twisting and tugging at the bonds on my hands and ankles got me nowhere. My hotel room card with my wallet was in the zippered pocket of my light jacket, half a Larabar in the other pocket. That was it. No knives or files. I had folding scissors in my bag but the bag was in my hotel room. I heard a trundling noise. Slate Eyes returned but didn’t speak, just hoisted me up and roughly bundled me into a wheelchair. That explained the trundling sound but where had he found a wheelchair? If he stole it from the car park, would someone miss it and call the police?

  A hat was jammed on my head and a blanket draped round me. Insane perhaps, but this man was also resourceful. My vision was blocked by the hat, which he’d pulled low over my face. He tucked the blanket up round my chin to complete the picture of an invalid protected from the night air. Off we went. What if I threw myself out of the chair? If people were around… I felt a sharp prick at the back of my neck.

  “Keep still and real quiet or I’ll cut your throat.”

  I promptly discarded the idea of creating a commotion. Where were we going? We reached Christchurch High Street. Streetlights were on but we didn’t meet anyone walking. Cars drove by. They’d see a man pushing some poor soul in a wheelchair. We covered the few yards to the entrance of Abbot’s Walk and turned in, heading to the harbor. Had he taken Horrie there already? I shivered. We didn’t pass anyone and when we got to the bay area it was deserted. Boats neat under canvas covers bobbed at their moorings. None had lights on to show people were aboard.

  “Quiet as a tomb, eh?”

  He bent down and stuck his face close to mine.

  “We’re going out on the water. Hope you don’t get seasick.”

  The voice was not solicitous, the face was that of a predator. The wheelchair was pushed to stone steps that led down to a small wooden dock where a rowboat rocked gently. I was hauled out of the wheelchair and carried down the steps. If anyone was watching, it would appear reasonably normal. He hadn’t thrown me over his shoulder this time, not wanting to look suspicious. He dumped me in the rowboat with a thud that rattled my teeth. I landed up against a hard, unyielding mass that felt suspiciously like bricks. Next to it I felt something larger, softer. I wriggled myself about until I could look. It was Horrie, silent and unmoving. Slate Eyes clambered in, settling on the seat across the middle of the small boat. He fiddled with the oars until they slotted into the oarlocks then untied the mooring rope. The rowboat moved slowly away from the dock, oars plish-plashing.

  “Nice night for a swim.” His voice was breathless from the rowing.

  I strained against the bonds on my hands and feet but they stayed tight. I wanted to know why this was happening. If he’d only take the gag out of my mouth, I’d ask. Horrie and I were crammed in the front of the boat and I couldn’t see Slate Eyes. The soft rocking of the boat would have been soothing if I wasn’t on a deadly sailing trip with a madman. Cool water dribbled over me as the oars rattled free of the oarlocks and clattered into the bottom of the boat. Had we reached our destination?

  “Got to give you some weight.” He pulled my jacket zipper down and began wedging in bricks.

  “Ow,” I mumbled round the leather gag.

  The jacket’s thin material ripped. Too bad. I was banking on that happening when I was in the water so the bricks would fall out and I’d keep myself afloat till a boat came by. On to Plan B. Slate Eyes muttered angrily and fumbled at my ankles. I strai
ned to see what he was doing. He threaded the cord of a canvas bag through the rope around my ankles and started shoving bricks into the bag.

  “You first, then your friend. You’re getting off easy, you deserve to be hung,” he said.

  “Why?” I said but it was an indistinct mumble through the soggy gag.

  Once the bag of bricks was fastened tightly, he sat back and looked at me in pure satisfaction.

  “What did we do to you?” I said but it was the same indistinct mumble through the gag.

  “Say your prayers,” he said, ignoring the mumble and stood cautiously, waiting for the boat to steady. Bending, he grabbed me under the arm, starting to lift me. Time for Plan B. I lashed out with my legs and the bag of bricks shifted, rolling against his feet. Slate Eyes cursed and staggered sideways but didn’t let go of me. The boat tilted and he pushed me to its edge and stuck one foot on the far side of the center seat to prevent us capsizing. My breathing was ragged as I dangled over the side of the boat. One more heave and I’d be in the water. The boat wallowed then steadied. I heard an engine. It got louder. Would they notice us?

  “Ahoy, coastguard here,” someone called.

  Our small rowboat rocked in the waves from the motorboat as it puttered close. A searchlight slid across the water, chasing away the dark. We were hailed again. Slate Eyes ignored the call. Grabbing my legs he launched me into wicked cold water. I wriggled like crazy, trying to free myself of the bag of bricks. Suddenly, a windmill of arms and legs landed heavily on me, forcing me down deeper. Had Horrie been thrown on top of me? What the hell was going on?

  I struggled to get out from under the various limbs thrashing around on top of me. It couldn’t be Horrie, he’d been trussed as tightly as me. All at once, the windmilling stopped and strong arms gripped me. Up we went, surfacing into glorious air. Lightheaded and limp, I was pushed by my rescuer and pulled up by two men leaning over the side of the coastguard’s boat. I landed on the deck spluttering feebly around the gag in my mouth. A circle of faces looked down at me, their expressions a mix of surprise and outrage. Quick hands undid the gag and my bonds.

  “Stark raving mad,” someone said.

  “Too damn true,” I said and managed a weak grin.

  The coastguard, I discovered later, had been alerted by a fisherman who’d been surprised to see his brother’s rowboat slipping out of the harbor. His brother was in the hospital and no one else ever used his boat. When the coastguard saw me heaved overboard, one of the crew jumped in to retrieve me. Slate Eyes immediately leaped over the side of the rowboat, landing on the crewman, who was propelled onto me. The would-be murderer did his best to prevent my rescue, fighting underwater like a maniac. Another crewmember jumped in to help.

  “Between us, we managed to overcome him,” one of the men told me. I nodded cheerfully, on a euphoric high, convinced the end of a horrendous rollercoaster ride had been reached, that danger was over. It didn’t matter that I was a sodden mess.

  Someone went over to the rowboat to check on Horrie.

  “His pulse is strong and he’s breathing steadily, let’s get him on board.”

  Anger had me gritting my teeth as I watched the crew send a hammock over to the rowboat. Horrie was swung to safety and willing hands swiftly cut his bonds. One of the crew brought a first-aid kit and dabbed antiseptic on the dried blood on the back of Horrie’s head. Horrie groaned and opened his eyes.

  “My head hurts.”

  “You took a terrible whack on the head,” I said. “You dropped like a lead weight.”

  “We were in the rose garden,” Horrie said.

  “Yes,” I said, relieved he was coherent.

  “We’ll get him to the hospital,” the crewman said as he put away the first-aid kit. “They’ll keep him for observation, see if he has a concussion.”

  Revulsion filled me at the brutality of that vicious blow to Horrie’s head. The boat turned in a tight circle and headed back into the harbor. Someone tapped my shoulder.

  “Come below, Miss, we’ll find you some dry clothes and take a look at any scrapes you may have.” I followed the crewman, trailing drips. It didn’t take long to climb into dry trousers and a thick sweater, both baggy but warm and comfortable and then I sat quietly while my bruises were gently cleaned with antiseptic.

  Stuffing my wet things into the plastic bag I was given, I followed the crewman up on deck and my anger flared again at the sight of the man who’d first attacked Lanny then vented his spleen on Horrie and me. He was stubbornly silent, avoiding the crew’s curious stares. He gazed into the distance, face blank. We neared land and the crew got busy, preparing to dock the boat.

  Slate Eyes erupted into violent action, seizing a tiny window of opportunity, precious seconds when no one’s attention was on him. He rammed the man next to him and scrambling to the shore side of the motorboat, took a daring leap onto the dock, staggered but caught his balance and sprinted off into the dark. In the confusion of a crowded cockpit where we’d been sent sprawling like dominoes, it was a long minute before someone took off after him. Racing clouds sped across the moon and soon a veil of misty rain made it hard to see. We could hear feet thudding on the wooden dock. The sounds changed as they reached what was probably a pathway. Two more crew jumped ashore and joined in the chase, shouting to the first man that they were coming. Then the air filled with the screeching of brakes followed by the ominous sound of the impact when flesh meets metal. By now we were securely docked but when I went to clamber ashore, firm hands held me back.

  “Best not to go yet, Miss.” Unable to move, I waited.

  The men who’d taken off in pursuit of the runaway came back, faces grim. The van coming to meet the coastguards’ boat had collided with Slate Eyes. He’d been running so fast neither had time to swerve.

  At Christchurch police station, my story was heard with assiduous attention and a certain level of puzzlement that bordered on disbelief. Admittedly, the explanation of why I’d been bound and sent to play with the fishes was fractured. It sounded strange, even to me, especially when I backed up and gave them a thorough rundown of the bizarre events in New York and explained that the man who’d jumped off the boat and run to his death was the man who’d attacked my godmother. The wallet found on the body had a name I didn’t know and a New Jersey address.

  A police surgeon arrived to examine me.

  “You’re lucky, it’s not serious,” he said as he finished his thorough exam. He’d already seen Horrie, who was being kept at the hospital overnight for observation. “I believe Dr. Humphreys will be able to leave in the morning,” the police surgeon said, reassuringly.

  Then it was back to police questioning. It was repetitive but overlaid with British politeness that took the sting out of it. The detective who first interviewed me was a young man with bright red hair and a habit of blushing scarlet when I asked him to repeat questions. I didn’t have the heart to explain I had a hard time following his accent. The chief inspector, a walrus of a man, radiated calm even though I knew he’d been called out of a sick bed.

  “A heavy cold,” he said pleasantly, waving a hand dismissively at my apologies. “I’ll live.” He turned serious. “Let me be frank. Your account is, ah, somewhat unusual. An autopsy will show if the man was on drugs. He certainly behaved as if he was deranged. It would be helpful to talk to the New York police, try to get a full picture.”

  That way you can check on my story.

  The chief inspector didn’t want to contact anyone at the Swedish consulate, he wanted to talk to his U.S. counterpart on the police force. Happy to oblige, I gave him the number for the Thirteenth Precinct.

  “Detective Riley has a file on everything that happened up to when I left New York,” I explained.

  It was 11 PM in England, 6 PM in New York. I waited, nursing a mug of hot chocolate. The chief inspector returned to let me know he’d spoken with Riley’s boss.

  “It was quite useful,” he said in his ultra-correct voice. He didn’t s
ay he’d checked up on me but his manner switched from cool to cordial. “I have a message from Detective Riley for you. He’d appreciate it if you’d e-mail him, here’s the e-address.” He passed me a slip of paper.

  “Thanks,” was all I said, though as I took the paper, I relished the thought that finally I had something to tell Riley, something that wasn’t just a suspicion.

  “I’ll have you driven to your hotel,” the chief inspector said. “In the morning, if the police surgeon is correct, Dr. Humphreys will be able to leave hospital. We’ll make sure he is taken back to where he’s staying. We’ll be in touch.”

  I nodded gratefully. I couldn’t wait to telephone Lars and tell him that Lanny’s attacker wouldn’t bother anyone again. Life would be peaceful now, right?

  The front desk clerk at the Royal Bath was too polite to raise even one eyebrow at my overlarge clothing or the soggy bundle under my arm.

  “I trust everything is all right?” he asked.

  “Yes, it really is,” I said and went upstairs to dial long distance. It was extravagant but I had to let Lars know the danger was over. E-mail wouldn’t do for this particular call. Lars answered almost instantly and the story poured out of me. Shaken as I was by the attacker’s gruesome end, I felt safer than I had for weeks.

  “His driver’s license is in the name of Lou Kralle but he looked so like Matt Wahr, he must be related in some way, it can’t be a coincidence.”

  “Wahr is the financial manager at the college charged with fraud?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I was with Horrie Humphreys when I saw the man and Horrie said the guy is a rep with a company that sells vision therapy equipment, which explains why he was at the conference in England.”

  “I’m not sure it fully explains the attack on Lanny, even if this man had some sort of vendetta against Dr. Forkiotis,” Lars said.