Acting Dead (Michael Quinn Thriller)

by John Moralee

  “How strong is it?”

  “Reasonably strong.”

  “Taylor said we couldn’t lose.”

  “It’s definitely winnable, that’s for sure.”

  “No offence, but have you presented a case before in front of a real judge and jury?”

  “Ah. Not exactly. Not on my own like this. I have done many depositions, though.” He pulled at his shirt collar, loosening his tie. “I’ve assisted several of the junior partners as second counsel. And at Harvard I was second in my class.”

  “Why not first?” she asked.

  He ignored that. He coughed and cleared his throat. “I’m sure in the time available, I can put forward an untenable argument. I’m determined to win my first case, I can assure you. It’s a matter of personal pride.”

  Sarah looked exasperated. “Mr Freeman, do you fully understand the depths these scumbags will go to? As my lawyer, you could be in the same danger as Taylor. You could disappear.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t believe that. I mean, this isn’t Iraq … People don’t go missing without someone doing something. Isn’t the sheriff doing a proper investigation?”

  I said: “If you call eating doughnuts and ogling the girls on the beach an investigation – yes.”

  “Well, perhaps I could have a word with him? I mean, he’ll listen to a lawyer, right?”

  “Just be cautious,” I said.

  “Oh, I will be,” Freeman said.

  “I mean it. This isn’t a game. Scott could have died because of it.”

  Freeman looked scared then. He had a right to be. He pressed the bridge of his nose as though relieving a tension headache. “If you’ll excuse me for a minute, I have to use the restroom.”

  “Take all the time you need,” Sarah said.

  Once he was gone, she removed her sunglasses and rubbed her eyes. “What do you think? Do I need a better lawyer?”

  “I think he’s well-meaning if naïve. I think a jury would probably like that ‘it’s my first case so please be nice to me’ thing. But if you want experience over enthusiasm, pick someone else.”

  “I can’t. The judge has given me all the leeway he’ll allow. Looks like I’m stuck with Tonto because the Lone Ranger isn’t here.”

  “Tonto was pretty good,” I said.

  Sarah didn’t look convinced. “I just hope Freeman knows what he’s doing. This lawsuit has cost me eighty-three thousand dollars in fees to Dyler and Westbrook. And that’s before it gets to court.”

  “Ouch. I had no idea you’d spent that much. Can you afford it?”

  “Not really. I mortgaged my house to get the cash to see this through. But that’s a small price to pay if it means saving Emerald Point.” She looked over my shoulder and saw David Freeman coming back. Sarah whispered to me. “Once all this meeting’s over, I’d really, really like to spend some free-time with you, doing anything but talk about this stupid case. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  Sarah spent the afternoon with me, just enjoying each other’s company. Over coffee we discussed real issues like politics and social problems. I liked her liberal idealism. Not many people cared about the world the way she did. Just listening to her was uplifting. I felt like joining Greenpeace and Amnesty International just to prove myself worthy of her company.

  “Why do you ride a Harley?”

  “On the farm we had the tractor, an old beat-up Ford that never worked, and a Triumph my grandfather brought back from England during World War 2. I learned to ride that bike when I was a little girl. It was the best thing for driving between the fields. And I love the feeling of the wind rushing past. I’ve never bothered with a car because I think they wasted too much gas for one person. The Harley is my one indulgence, you could say. I treated myself to it on gaining my degree.”

  On Port Island we went for a run together. Sarah trained three times a week, usually alone, so running against someone interested her. An avid runner myself, I liked her competitiveness. She was one of those people who have to do their best at everything they do – pushing herself to the edge. One hundred percent effort, always. She challenged me to beat her back to her house on a route that took us along the coast and over some hills as far as some little farm houses. Four miles, there and back. We raced it. In the beginning she crept ahead, though I caught up as we climbed the first hill. Running level, we were both laughing between breaths.

  “Faster?”

  “Yeah!”

  “More?”

  “If you can!”

  Light cajoling banter lifted our spirits and spurred us on to new speeds. We fell into an awesome rhythm. Her body was tuned into it, something beautiful to watch. She kept up until the final 100 yards, when I sprinted ahead with a final burst of adrenaline. Showing off, really. I got to her gate three strides ahead and fell onto the grass, a quivering heap of oxygen-starved muscles. I paid for winning by taking ten minutes to recover, Sarah gloating as I sat resting while she continued with her exercise programme.

  “Tired?” she said, stretching her arms over her head, her suppleness impressive.

  “Hey! I did win,” I half-heartedly protested.

  “Yeah, right. You want to do it again? Right now?” Her cheeks were rosy, but she was ready to go.

  “Maybe later – like when the paramedics get here with some new legs. Seems mine have worn out.”

  We went back to her house, where we took turns showering. I was second. When I’d dried off, I met Sarah in the kitchen. Sarah had filled a basket with picnicking stuff, like strawberries and fresh cream. She was wearing a swimsuit and sandals.

  “Sarah, I noticed all the beers have gone from the fridge. You moved them for me?”

  “Uh-huh. I thought it would be easier.”

  “Thanks. It is. I appreciate that.”

  “I thought we could have a picnic on the sand.” She showed me a secret path down to the beach, cutting a long walk to a short one. “I like to walk here to gather my thoughts,” she said. “It’s so peaceful. If you look over there, across the water, you can see Emerald Point.”

  “I see it. It’s beautiful. The sun makes it shine bluey-green. That’s probably why they named it Emerald Point.”

  “Actually, it was named that because a French ship carrying emeralds became shipwrecked in 1792. The emeralds are now in the Smithsonian. Cape Mistral was named after the cold, northwesterly wind that made them shipwreck. The wind was similar to those in the Mediterranean region of France where the sailors came from. Their descendants were the original founders of the island. They named it Mistral because of that event.”

  “I didn’t know all that. You’re a real source of info.”

  “The curse of being a scientist,” she said. “You’d be amazed at the obscure trivia I know.”

  “No,” I said, “nothing surprises me about you. That is why I sort of bought you a little gift earlier.”

  “Oh? What?”

  “I thought of buying you some roses, but then I reckoned that would be like buying a steak for a vegetarian. So … here’s something stupid I picked up on the marina.”

  I fished into my pocket and took out my gift. It was wrapped in shiny paper. I gave it to her and she opened it up. Inside, she found a little blue and white dolphin with big, loveable eyes. Sarah giggled and inspected it. “I love it. Very, very sweet. What’s the button for?”

  “Press it.”

  She did. The dolphin uttered a clicking sound and the flippers waggled. We broke up hearing the krrrk-krrrk-krrrk. It wouldn’t stop. Krrrk-krrrk-krrrk. It waggled its flippers for a minute before slowing down. Sarah spoke through tears of laughter. “I bet you spent hours looking for this!”

  I grinned, admitting it with a nod. That set us off laughing harder.

  “Come on,” she said. “I have something to show you.”

  I followed her along the beach. We walked along the beach with our feet in the wonderfully cool water. She stopped after five minutes, setting down the picnic b
asket. We were in a secluded cove below her cliff-top house. Between the rocks, the sand was as fine a talcum powder. Sarah walked between the rock pools in her bare feet. She stopped by a clear pool. I could see a grin on Sarah’s face. “Nobody can see us here.”

  “Good,” I said. “I’ve been dying to kiss you again.”

  “That’s not why I brought you here.”

  “No?”

  “First, let me show you something.” She reached into the pool and pulled up something deep red. It was a glistening starfish no bigger than a dime. “Baby starfish. There are hundreds of them in this rock pool. They shouldn’t be here at this time of year, but the weird climatic changes we’ve been having have upset the birthing times. These babies should be big enough to venture out in a few weeks.”

  She gently placed the starfish in my cupped hands.

  “They’re eating machines,” she said. “They devour oysters by turning their stomachs inside out.”

  “And we’re just about to have a picnic. Thanks.”

  She grinned. “Let me put it back.”

  She lowered it into the pool. We sat on the smooth rock and had the picnic. The strawberries and cream were excellent. When some cream spilled down her chin, I wiped it off with my finger. She smiled, her teeth like fine porcelain. After we had finished eating, we moved closer.

  “You are amazing,” I told her. “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

  “Only think?” she joked. “Aren’t you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  She placed her fingers on my face, brushing my skin with the lightest of touches. “You have very soft skin, Mr Hollywood. I bet you moisturise daily.” She said it with a grin. “Scientifically, that explains why kissing you felt so good the last time.”

  “Don’t scientists like repeating experiments?”

  “Well, let’s find out.”

  We kissed and sighed into it. I kissed her mouth, her neck, the top of her breasts. Without warning, she pulled away and crawled backwards on her hands. She moved so fast she ended up sitting on her hands. There were tears in her eyes.

  “No. Too fast. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “It’s not,” she said. She hid her eyes behind her hand. She would not look at me … as though it would blind her, like the sun. “I want to kiss you and … but I can’t. I don’t think we should do that again.”

  I did not understand. “Sarah … What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Everything is perfect.”

  But everything was not perfect. She was shivering. “Sarah, talk to me. Is it me? You’re worried about my two failed marriages?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t want to get involved with an alcoholic like your father?”

  She shook her head vigorously.

  “No. You’re nothing like him.”

  “Then what?”

  Sarah began packing up the picnic. “I can’t get involved with anyone as long as I’m worrying about the fate of Emerald Point, that’s all. Can we get going now?”

  It was an answer, a reasonable answer, but I didn’t believe it.

  “No. Something else has upset you.”

  “No, it’s Van Morgan. We have to work out a plan –”

  “Sarah … that friend of yours?”

  Defensive: “What friend?”

  “The one at university?”

  She shook her head. “Which friend?”

  “The one who was raped?”

  “Oh, her?” She looked levelly into my eyes. “What about her?”

  “What was her name?”

  “Her name?” She shook her head. “She wouldn’t want me telling you.”

  “Sarah … there was no friend.”

  “What?” She laughed it off. “Of course there was.”

  “No. There was no friend. What happened to you?”

  She answered in a low whisper, a whisper so quiet it was like the breeze talking, the voice of a ghost.

  “I was raped.”

  She stood up and kicked the picnic basket into the rock pool. Then she shouted it: “I was raped!”

  She ran off down the beach.

  “Sarah?”

  The house was quiet. Her Harley was outside and I’d found the kitchen door open. She was not downstairs. Passing through her study and the hall, I went upstairs and looked in the bedrooms. Only one door was closed. I knocked. She answered with a mumble. I pushed the door and entered. Her bedroom was big and airy. It was a corner room with windows on two walls. The windows were open and the curtains were billowing in a light breeze. I could smell the ocean. There was a large oil painting of a beautiful sunset over the bed. Pictures of her sisters. Her bed faced the window, which opened to the ocean. Two lamps on the bedside dressers made the bed look golden. The bed was watched over by several cuddly dolphin toys crowded on the dressers.

  She was standing by the window, looking out. Her whole body was tense. Her arms were down at her sides, her fists clenched. Her shoulders stiffened. She was breathing shallowly.

  “I said go away.”

  “I couldn’t hear. It sounded like come in.”

  I didn’t know what to say or do next.

  “Cute dolphins,” I said.

  “Cute dolphins?” She laughed with a thickness in her voice. “I bought them at Seaworld – I couldn’t resist them. I love dolphins. They must’ve seen me coming ... sentimental sucker.”

  “You’re not a sucker. Just human.”

  “I hate myself,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Because … because I should have done something. Stopped it.”

  “What could you have done?”

  “I should have prevented it. I don’t know how. It makes me so angry. He …”

  “What?”

  “When you kissed me and started touching my body, it reminded me of him. The rapist. He held me down and drooled all over me. His spit was on my skin. I felt dirty, like it was my fault. He did things … things I can’t think about without loathing myself. He got away with it, but I’m the one who feels like I did something wrong, like I’m to blame. I should have let him kill me. I should have fought back, but I didn’t know how.”

  “He would have killed you for sure.”

  “That’s why I’ve learned how to defend myself. Never again. Never again.” She slumped her head against the window. “Mike … I can’t stand the thought of another man ever touching me. Even you.”

  “Sarah, are you going to let him win?”

  “He did win. He got away with it.”

  “Yes. But are you going to let him ruin the rest of your life?”

  “HE HAS ALREADY!” She faced me. “It makes me so angry, Michael. I just want to kill him, but I can’t. I have all these feelings locked inside, but I can’t let them out.”

  “You’ve got to some time.”

  “No.”

  I walked towards her.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to hug you.”

  I opened my arms and wrapped them around her. She resisted, pulling away from me, but I held on as she wept for the first real time since it had happened.

  Later, she was able to tell me the whole story. Six years ago, she had gone to see an arthouse movie on the campus and had been walking back to her apartment later that evening. The man had followed her, possibly from the theatre. It had been dark inside during the movie so she could never be sure, but she suspected he’d picked her as his victim hours before it happened. He waited for her friends to go to their apartments. She felt safe on the campus, even though it was dark, because where she came from in Iowa women did not have to worry about things like rape. It was only a short walk. He attacked her as she was almost home. He carried a hunting knife and warned her she’d die if she made a noise. She didn’t. He dragged her in the darkness of a deserted parking lot, where he ripped off her clothes. Her ordeal lasted hours. He raped her three times. He said he would come back to kill her if she to
ld anyone – he took her student ID to make certain she knew he was serious. She had remained in bed for a week, too sick to move, hating herself, fearing every sound. She never told the police about it - she had been so ashamed. She had kept it a secret from her friends and family for six years. The thought of being physically intimate with a man made her tighten up and feel angry and scared. Whenever a man looked at her in a sexual way, she had the urge to strike out. She had bought a house with no neighbours, where she could concentrate on her research, which was the only thing that gave her pleasure. She still had nightmares about the rape.

  “I want us to try having a relationship,” Sarah said. “Please give me the time I need. Be patient. Be my friend, more than anything else.”

  “Yes,” I said, staring into her beautiful eyes. I wondered how they could be so dark and yet so clear. “Here we are. We have all the time in the world.”

  Chapter 23

  Later that day, I returned to Mistral. I went for a late afternoon run through the suburbs, running away some of the fury I’d built up on hearing Sarah’s secret, the reason why she was so angry with the world. Sarah was the best thing that had happened to me in a long time - and it hurt to think of the torment inside her. I was thinking what I’d do to the man who raped her if I ever caught him when a white limo pulled up beside me, its engine purring. My mood turned darker. A side window oozed down and Charles Van Morgan leaned out, his gold cufflinks and Rolex shining like mirrors. I stopped running, the energy draining out of me. My lungs were on fire. Panting, I looked up and down the road and noticed that there was no one around to see this unexpected meeting.

  Another man was lounging in the limo behind Van Morgan. It was dark in there and I couldn’t see much of him, but I did see his general profile. He was big, probably seven feet tall, like a WWF wrestler. And I swear his head was square – really square – making me think of Frankenstein’s monster. Not the friendly Herman Munster kind, but the Bela Lugosi kind. Then he must have shifted position because I couldn’t see him for Van Morgan.

  “That number you gave me was wrong,” Van Morgan said.