Still Waters

by Tami Hoag

  “Jeez Louise . . .” Her voice trailed off as she flipped to the next page and the next, her gaze racing over the names and dates. She felt as if she had just opened Pandora's box and found snakes writhing inside it, and the excitement that had burst to life within her struggled to bob above the surface of an overwhelming tide. She suddenly felt like a toddler who had fallen into the deep end of the pool.

  “Hand it over, Jolynn.”

  Her heart thudding, she jerked her head up. She hadn't heard him approach, she'd been so engrossed in her reading, but he was standing not five feet away from her, near enough that she could see his face clearly in the fading light. “Rich.”

  Slowly, she rose to her feet, her back pressed against the door of the Lincoln, her eyes fast on her ex-husband. Elizabeth had always said he bore some resemblance to Robert Redford as the Sundance Kid, with his square face, rumpled sandy hair, and mustache. But in this setting, with shadows falling across his face and his mouth set in a grim line, his strongest resemblance to that character was the aura of danger that radiated from him.

  “I'll take the book, Jolynn,” he said quietly.

  He reached his left hand toward her expectantly, assuming she would give him what he wanted. As she always had.

  “Not this time, Rich,” she murmured, shaking her head.

  Anger, dark and cold, flashed in his eyes. He took another step toward her, left hand outstretched. In his right he clutched a tire iron.

  HE WAS DRUNK. ELIZABETH COULD SMELL THE WHISKEY ON him. She got up from her chair slowly, as careful not to make any sudden moves as if she were facing off with a grizzly bear.

  “Were you waiting for me?” Ellstrom asked, his mouth twisting into a leer. “Or were you waiting for Great Dane, big man on campus?” He straightened away from the Linotype, swaying a little on his feet, frowning at the smear of grease the machine left on the sleeve of his rumpled uniform shirt.

  “Dane,” Elizabeth said automatically. “He should be here any minute.”

  Ellstrom chuckled and wagged a finger at her, shuffling slowly toward her. “You lying bitch. He's not coming here. He's on a call.”

  He let his gaze slide down over her body, lingering on every womanly curve, savoring the idea of touching those curves. “Jantzen,” he sneered, his mouth curving down as if the name left a bad taste. “Thinks he's so fucking smart. He's nothing but a washed-up jock. He doesn't know shit about Jarvis or anything else.”

  “And you do?” Elizabeth ventured, reaching behind her to feel across the desk for something to defend herself with. Her fingers brushed her purse and she thought longingly of the Desert Eagle, but she had stuck the gun back in her nightstand after her lesson with Dane, afraid of the power of it and the potential for disaster.

  Ellstrom ignored her question, his attention homing in on the way the fabric of her T-shirt snugged across her breasts as she reached back, zeroing in on the way the U of UTEP outlined her right nipple. Lust brought color to his fleshy face. He shuffled another step closer. “Jantzen's not coming, but I'm gonna,” he snickered, reaching a hand between his legs and cupping himself suggestively.

  Elizabeth backed away from him slowly, never taking her eyes off him. She moved from the desk and the counter, where he had cornered her days before. The wheels in her mind were spinning in high gear. His drunkenness might give her the edge in quickness, but it definitely gave him an edge in the danger category. Whatever inhibitions he might have normally regarding use of force had been washed away by booze. He was a big man—not just heavy, but big-framed. She would have been a fool to think there wasn't physical strength beneath the flab. And he was angry. He had decided she was somehow responsible for all the problems in his life. She and Dane. He wanted restitution. He wanted what most of the men in this town believed she gave away for a smile and a pat on the fanny.

  “You owe me,” he said, his expression hardening.

  “I know,” Elizabeth murmured, buying time. She took another step backward, fighting the urge to look over her shoulder to see how close her goal was. “I've been waiting for you.”

  He blinked in confusion and his step faltered, his motor skills seizing up as his brain tried to direct energy elsewhere. “You told me to fuck off.”

  She sent him what she hoped was a sultry smile and moved back another step toward the private office she never used. “Oh, come on, sugar. Can't you tell when a lady is playing hard to get?”

  She held her breath while he stared at her long and hard, trying to reason through the fog of alcohol whether or not she was playing on the level. She was betting his ego would win out—maybe betting her life. Ellstrom had been involved with Jarvis somehow. With Helen at the very least. And there was something fishy about his arresting Trace for the Fox murder. He had claimed he was just in the area when the call came, and that he had known there was bad blood between Trace and Carney. But he could have killed Carney Fox himself and set Trace up to take the fall. Maybe Fox had seen him kill Jarvis. Maybe Boyd Ellstrom was just plain crazy.

  Elizabeth swallowed hard at her fear. She had learned at an early age to think on her feet and save her own ass. In her experience, white knights didn't charge in for a last-second rescue. A woman was on her own in this world, and she either saved her bacon or became a victim.

  She tossed her hair over her shoulder and crossed her arms beneath her breasts, plumping them up beneath the thin, soft fabric of her T-shirt.

  “I was just teasing you, big guy,” she said, batting her lashes. “Don't you like to be teased? It's one of my specialties.”

  Her back hit the doorjamb and Ellstrom moved in a step closer. Elizabeth fought to grab a breath through the smell of sweat, cheap liquor, and bad gas. Her heart jammed at the base of her throat and pounded there like a fist against a door.

  “How about a blowjob?” he asked, his gaze glued on her mouth. He could already see those ruby-red lips wrapped around his cock. Just the thought of it had him stretching his shorts. “I'll bet that's one of your specialties too.”

  She struggled to bend a grimace into a wry smile. “Ever seen Deep Throat?”

  Her voice was husky and breathless from straining against the need to gag—on her fear, on the smell of him, on what he was suggesting. Ellstrom took it as part of her seduction, and he snickered like an overgrown teenager. He was no more than a foot away from her. His prick was at full attention, straining against the fly of his black trousers. Thinking she would rather wrap her hand around a rattlesnake, Elizabeth forced herself to reach down and touch him. She ran her fingers down the length of him, shuddering inwardly, laughing to cover her disgust.

  “Why, Deputy, is this a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

  Ellstrom groaned and thrust himself against her touch. Jantzen had always been the one to get everything in this town—praise, adoration, the sheriff's job, his pick of the women. That was going to change. Starting now.

  He reached for his belt buckle.

  Elizabeth grabbed his hand. “Not right here, sugar,” she murmured, looking up at him through her lashes. “In the office. You can sit in my chair while I make you happy.”

  He was sold. She could tell by the glazed look in his eyes. Hormones and whiskey had fogged what little common sense he had. She slid her hands up his chest to his shoulders and backed him into the cramped, cluttered office, wondering if he had been the one who'd tossed the place.

  “Take off your blouse,” he ordered. “I want to see your tits.”

  She slanted him a smile. “In a minute, honey. What's your hurry? We've got all the time in the world.”

  He snickered again, tickled at the prospect of spending the night screwing her. Jantzen would shit a brick when he found out. And he would find out. Boyd would make sure of it. Just as he would be sure of finding that damned book of Jarvis's. It was all going to work out for him. He deserved it.

  “This is gonna be good,” he mumbled, reaching up with the intention of taking hold of one of th
ose big full breasts. She dodged his touch, laughing her sultry, smoky laugh. Teasing him, as she said. His fingertips grazed her nipple and his cock jumped in his pants. He was going to go off like a damned rocket the minute she took him in her mouth.

  “Oh, yeah,” he groaned. “This is gonna be great. I've been looking forward to this.”

  “Mmm . . . me too,” Elizabeth purred. They didn't mean the same thing, but Deputy Dope didn't know that. She ran her hands over his sloping shoulders and shuffled a little closer to him. “I've been wanting to do this for days.”

  “Yeah?” His eyes gleamed with the glassy light of intoxication and carnal desire. “Me too. I deserve it.”

  “You sure do, sugar.”

  Elizabeth smiled up at him, her prettiest, most mandazzling smile, then brought her knee up with all the force she could muster, visualizing ramming his balls all the way up to his throat. She connected with a solid blow, and Ellstrom's breath left him in a gust as he doubled over, clutching himself.

  “You bitch!” he croaked. “You fucking bitch!” he sputtered, spittle spraying, his voice strangled, his face flushing burgundy. He glared at her through bulging, tear-filled eyes and tried to lunge at her, but he couldn't straighten and wouldn't let go of himself. “I'll kill you! I'll fucking kill you for this!”

  Elizabeth bolted out of the office, slamming the door shut on Ellstrom's tirade as she went. She ran for the back door, not wasting time on a look over her shoulder. She could hear him bellowing like a wounded moose. If he caught her before she could get help, she had little doubt but that he would indeed kill her, or make her wish that he had.

  But she didn't even make it out of the building in her search for a cop. Just as she reached the door Mark Kaufman pulled it open.

  “Ms. Stuart, I need you to come with me,” he said softly, his brown eyes shining with concern as he took in her wild expression and the obscenities being shouted from somewhere behind her. “Um—there's been an accident,” he stammered, his attention bouncing back and forth like a spectator's at a tennis match.

  “An accident?” Elizabeth repeated, her thoughts going instantly to Trace as a rush of fear crested in her chest. “Is it my son? Is it Trace?”

  “No,” Kaufman said, dragging his gaze back to her. “It's Jolynn.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THE STILL CREEK COMMUNITY HOSPITAL WAS A NEW one-story brick building on the outskirts of town, directly across the street from the Good Shepherd Home for the Elderly. Built partly on the revenues of tourism, the waiting room had been decorated accordingly with an Amish motif. The work of a local artist depicted everyday Amish life in oils and watercolors in frames made of rough-sawn barn siding. The rockers and settees looked as though they might have come from Aaron Haurer's shop. The atmosphere was altogether too homey for a place where people waited with white knuckles and churning stomachs.

  Elizabeth paced back and forth on a long braided rug, smoldering cigarette in hand, blatantly ignoring the no-smoking signs. She flicked a glance at the bitchy old cow behind the admissions desk and paused in her pacing to tap her ash into the pot of a thriving ficus. The woman glared at her, her small eyes glittering above fat cheeks, but she said nothing.

  Just let her say something, Elizabeth thought, spoiling for a fight—anything to get her mind off her fears for Jolynn. She was in no mood to take shit from anybody. She was at the end of her rope. Her back was against the proverbial wall. She was ready to tear into someone, anyone. But the Minnesotans around her had retreated behind their cool reserve and their good manners, so she was forced to stew.

  No wonder people went crazy in this place. Everyone repressing their feelings, holding everything in all the time. Anger and bitterness and God knew what else all boiling inside them, building like steam in a radiator until they just went off. Like Helen Jarvis. Like Garth Shafer. Like whoever had slit Jarrold Jarvis's throat and bashed in Carney Fox's head. Not even Scandinavian stoicism could hold back that kind of rage. It ripped through everything, like shrapnel tearing through steel.

  The pendulum clock that hung above a shelf of painted wooden Amish figurines showed 10:30. More than an hour since Kaufman had shown up at the office. Elizabeth had left him to deal with Ellstrom and driven herself to the hospital. She had demanded to be taken to Jolynn, but Nurse Ratchet had confined her to the waiting room. So she paced and prayed and wondered what the hell had happened.

  She had nearly made up her mind to go on the offensive again and storm the desk, when Doc Truman came strolling down the hall from the examination area. A small man, he nonetheless exuded an aura of confidence and paternal wisdom. His face was lean and lined with character, and he had a full head of snow-white hair which he wore combed neatly back. A stethoscope hung around his neck. The chest piece was tucked into the breast pocket of the loose white lab jacket he wore over a blue dress shirt and dark trousers. Elizabeth's eyes went immediately to the smears of blood staining the cuff of one sleeve. Her heart picked up a beat and the bottom dropped out of her stomach.

  “Oh, my God, Jolynn,” she breathed, lifting a hand to her mouth. Her vision blurred with tears.

  “You're Elizabeth?” the doctor asked.

  She nodded, abandoning her cigarette to the ficus. “How is she? What happened? Can I see her?”

  The questions tumbled out in random order, without space between them for an answer. Jolynn was the closest Elizabeth had ever come to having a sister. She was more like family than J.C. had ever been. She was her best and nearly her only friend in Still Creek. God, if she lost Jolynn . . . An almost overwhelming sense of loneliness swamped her.

  Doc Truman flipped back the stainless-steel cover of a patient chart and jotted something down in ballpoint. “She's got a concussion and some nasty cuts and bruises,” he said calmly. He clicked off the pen and slipped it into his shirt pocket, glancing at Elizabeth from beneath bushy white brows. “We're keeping her overnight for observation, but all in all I'd say she's a very lucky lady.”

  Relief flooded through Elizabeth and swirled around in dizzying whirlpools with fear and anger and everything else she was feeling. “What happened? Can I see her?”

  “You can see her briefly. I'll let Sheriff Jantzen fill you in on the rest.”

  Like an actor taking his cue, Dane appeared in the wide doorway of the hall the doctor had come down. His expression was stern. Elizabeth went to him. They didn't exchange a word of greeting. Dane turned and Elizabeth fell into step beside him. On the way to the room he curtly went over Jolynn's account of the events, from finding Jarvis's book to Rich's arrival to the harrowing scene that had been played out in Waterman's junkyard.

  “He planned to kill her with the tire iron, then put her in her car and run the car off the road. Make it look like an accident,” he said flatly. “Jolynn made a run for it. She knew she couldn't get to her car, so she went winding through the maze of junk, trying to lose him. Naturally, Cannon came after her. She managed to tip a heap of scrap iron over on him.”

  Elizabeth shuddered at the thought. She could imagine the raw terror, the horrible certainty of knowing someone you had once loved was going to kill you. Her imagination played out every step of the chase, every sound, every scent, the coppery taste of fear and the salt of tears.

  “Is he dead?” she asked.

  “I don't know. He was unconscious when they loaded him on the helicopter. I talked to someone in the trauma unit at St. Mary's a little while ago. They said it didn't look good.”

  That, Elizabeth thought, all depended on your point of view. She wouldn't have felt a moment's sadness over Rich Cannon's death. He had made Jolynn's life a misery and had set out to kill her. Elizabeth's protective instincts for those close to her and her strong sense of justice would have found Rich's demise a fitting one—crushed by a heap of garbage.

  Jolynn lay in the hospital bed, her complexion as white as the over-bleached sheets. Already her eyes were ringed with dark circles. A line of delicate stitches bound an angr
y-looking slash across her right cheek. She wore a wide gauze bandage around her forehead like a headband and both hands were wrapped like a mummy's. Yeager sat beside her on the far side of the bed, his head bent down next to hers, an expression of tenderness and concern on his face.

  “Hey, kid, how you doin'?” she asked, not able to manage more than a whisper around the lump in her throat. She started to reach out to take Jolynn's hand, but remembered the bandages and curled her fingers around the bed's safety railing instead.

  Jolynn looked up at her, glassy-eyed and groggy. “Stupid question,” she said weakly, trying to manage a smile despite the lidocaine that deadened her cheek. “You ought to be a reporter.”

  “Naw,” Elizabeth drawled, shaking her head. “I think I might try my hand at nuclear physics though. I know just about as much about it.”

  “I'm sorry about the weekly edition,” Jo mumbled. Because of her they wouldn't be able to make deadline. Why'd she have to go and get caught? Couldn't she do anything without screwing up? Rich's fault, her brain reminded her. Rich's fault. Rich had tried to— The signal shorted out and her brow knit at the confusion. Pain pounded through her skull like hammer blows.

  “It's okay, sugar,” Elizabeth whispered, tightening her hands on the rail. “I reckon Still Creek can stand to miss a week of bad news.”

  Guilt assailed her like an avenging angel. If it hadn't been for her determination to print the truth, to ferret out that truth on her own, this never would have happened. They should have left everything to Dane and Yeager. Who in Still Creek gave a rip about reading the truth in their stupid weekly paper anyway? All they wanted to see was the 4-H club news and the specials at the Piggly Wiggly.

  “It's not your fault,” Jolynn said, accurately reading the look on Elizabeth's face. “You're not God, you know. I went out on my own. I made my own decision and I'm glad I did.”

  She wasn't glad she'd nearly gotten herself killed, but she couldn't say she regretted anything else that had happened. She had taken charge of her life. She had faced down the specter of her past once and for all. She had saved herself physically and psychologically. While she had been running through the towering mountains of junk at Waterman's, not knowing whether she would escape with her life or not, she had been hit by the strangest feeling of being alive, more alive than she had been in years, and everything had fallen neatly into perspective—who she was, who she could be, what she wanted.