by Mike Markel
“That implies they’re going to move. What if they just decide to talk it out on the phone?”
“No, the one that killed Virginia is gonna try to kill the other one. Abby’s gonna call Martin by 1:40. Then they’re gonna work out a place to meet. That’s where it’s gonna happen.” I paused. “That, or I open up the nail salon with Mary.”
“Let’s hope it works.”
“It has to work. I don’t have any money, and the only thing I know about nails is how to bite them.”
We ate separately: Ryan at his desk, me in the break room. I felt tense. It wasn’t that I was afraid there’d be any violence this afternoon. More likely, all we’d do is arrest someone. But I was scared that I might have screwed Mary Dawson and Ryan. There was a very good chance my idea was a real lose-lose proposition: We don’t solve the case, but we all get disciplined or fired.
I picked at a sandwich from a machine. The cellophane said chicken, but chicken isn’t supposed to be grey. I drifted back to the bullpen around one o’clock.
“Abby had a class this morning but nothing this afternoon,” Ryan said.
“We don’t even know if she’s going to classes anymore.”
“That’s true. But that’s also true of any college kid these days.”
I said, “Is Martin in class?”
“Supposed to be. I’m going to head on over to campus.”
“What kind of car is he driving?”
“It’s a Mustang. Black.”
“Of course it is. You gonna change into soft clothes?”
“Good idea.” He got up and headed toward the stairs. Then he stopped and turned back. “Don’t forget your phone.”
“Talk to you soon,” I said.
“Looking forward to it.” He gave me a broad smile and a thumbs up.
I visited the ladies’ and headed out to Mary Dawson’s house, where I hoped Abby would be. It was in a middle-income development, about ten or fifteen years old, with the standard three- and four-bedroom two-story houses, mostly stucco. Lots of portable basketball poles and hoops, a few trampolines, and lots of yapping little dogs. I parked a block down from Mary’s house. It was west-coast design, full of twists and turns and all kinds of rooflines. The wide concrete driveway led to a three-car garage.
I checked my watch: 1:20. My phone rang.
It was Ryan. “Is Abby there?”
“No idea,” I said. “They’ve got a three-car garage, no windows in it. I can’t see anything. How about Martin? Is the dipshit in class?”
“Yes, Master Martin is attending his Business Law class. But he’s also got his laptop open. He’s playing a computer game I didn’t recognize.”
“Okay. Let me know if anything happens.”
“You bet.”
I ended the call and spent the next seventeen minutes gazing at Mary Dawson’s house. I know it was seventeen minutes because the last time I checked my watch it was sixteen minutes.
My phone rang. I picked up before the first ring ended. “Yeah?”
“Martin got a text from someone, packed up his stuff quick, and left the lecture hall. He’s walking fast. I’m following him in my car. He’s headed west. Maybe toward the parking garage on Roosevelt.”
“Okay, stay with him.”
We stayed on the phone.
A minute later, Ryan said, “He’s going into the garage. Has Abby moved?”
“No. Nothing here.”
Another thirty seconds passed, then the garage door on Mary Dawson’s house slowly slid open. A yellow car, a Saturn, nosed out. “Abby’s on the move. Can you tell where Martin’s going?”
“Not yet.” There was silence. “Looks like he’s going to his fraternity.” Another pause. “Yeah, he’s pulling into the parking area parked behind the fraternity.”
“Abby’s headed toward Main.” I followed her as she headed through the business district on the city’s major east-west street, past all the stores. The streets were full on a beautiful late spring afternoon, the bright sun high in the sky. Abby drove carefully, stopping even for the yellow lights. I stayed three cars back in my old Honda Accord.
Main Street turned into 61, which ran along the Rawlings River. There were walkers and bikers out on the Greenpath. To my left were the foothills, full of new developments all built in the last five years. “Abby’s on 61, headed east toward the dam.”
The pretty new neighborhoods and shops turned into older, shabbier stores selling ice, worms, and six-packs. Past the municipal golf course sat a jet-ski/snowmobile dealer, a mom-and-pop diner that specialized in pancakes all day long, and a couple of bars that catered to bikers. The grasses along the road got taller and browner, the shrubs scrubbier, and the road bumpier.
Up ahead I saw the dam, which was opened a little before I got here seventeen years ago. It sits in the middle of a couple thousand acres of state land, holding back the waters of Rawlings Lake, the storage reservoir. The lake is almost ten miles long, with forty miles of shoreline and a little marina with boat ramps for powerboats and sailboats and a sandy swimming beach for those who don’t mind water that will freeze your nuts off even in August.
Overlooking the lake, right beyond the dam, is a seventy-five foot tall cross, built almost a hundred years ago by the Optimist Club. They gave it to the city a few years ago because they couldn’t afford to clean up the beer cans and liquor bottles and paint over the graffiti.
If you were a local kid, chances are very good that the first time you got drunk and got laid was beneath a gigantic old wooden cross.
Abby put on her blinker. “She’s headed toward the cross.”
“Martin’s still inside the fraternity house.”
I pulled my car into the little lot at the powerhouse, a three-story stone building, where the Army Corps of Engineers runs the dam. Inside the powerhouse is the enormous turbine that diverts water from the reservoir through a steel-lined tunnel twenty-five feet wide.
I looked through my binoculars at Abby, who had parked her yellow Saturn up against the guard rail in the small parking area beneath the cross. I couldn’t quite make out her expression. She appeared to be resting her head on the steering wheel.
“She’s parked right under the cross.”
“Okay, Martin just came out of the fraternity. He’s getting in his car.”
I got out of my Honda. Off to my left was the reservoir, almost full after the spring runoff. Tiny whitecaps dotted the green-black surface. A three-sided barrier line with orange plastic buoys the size of basketballs stretched some fifty yards into the reservoir. The input tunnel, almost a hundred feet below the surface, created eddies and whirlpools on the surface powerful enough to pull a swimmer down. There were signs all along the road intended to scare the shit out of you if you even thought about going into the water.
Off to my right, the output chute sprayed a broad stream of white water fifty feet down the rocky river. The spray roared like a jet plane. Mist dotted my binocular lenses. I looked at Abby’s car. She hadn’t moved from behind the steering wheel.
Ryan said, “Martin’s headed in your direction. ETA: one minute.”
I got back in my car and turned it around so the front pointed out. I had my binocs focused on 61. Half a minute later, I saw the black Mustang turn onto the feeder road and head in my direction. I put my head down as he sped past me, although I doubt he was thinking about me or would recognize me.
“He’s headed toward her yellow Saturn,” I said to Ryan on the phone. “I’m in the little lot at the powerhouse, maybe a hundred yards away. Pull in next to me. We need him to make a move.”
“Okay,” Ryan said. “I’ll be right there.”
The Mustang rocked as it came to a stop behind Abby’s Saturn, blocking her exit. Abby started to get out of her car. Martin ran up to the door of her car and started pulling her out.
I knew who had killed Virginia Rinaldi, and I knew what he was going to do now. I peeled out of little parking lot at the powerhouse. As I sped toward
Abby and Martin, I saw Ryan’s blue Mitsubishi in my rear-view mirror. He had been slowing down and was going to pull in next to me, like I told him to. Now he fell in behind me.
I couldn’t quite make out what was happening under the cross, but it looked like Abby and Martin were scuffling. He wanted it to look like a suicide. And he had chosen the cross because he wanted it to seem like Christian guilt. I hated this son of a bitch.
I pulled into the parking area just as Martin punched Abby in the gut. She doubled over and sank to the ground. He looked up at the sound of my car, then bent back over her and half pulled her to her feet, dragging her toward the rock outcropping over the edge of the reservoir.
I was out of my car, my gun drawn, running toward them. I shouted. “Police. Stop.” Martin looked in my direction for a moment but kept dragging Abby by her upper arms. She looked conscious, but just barely. He ducked under the handrail, dragging her out to the edge of the rocks. I shouted at him again to stop but he ignored me.
As Ryan’s car screeched to a halt in the parking area behind me, Martin lifted Abby and thrust her out over the rock outcropping. Her arms and legs flailing, she seemed to hang in the air for the longest time before she disappeared into the green-black water fifty feet below.
Chapter 29
As he rushed past me toward the outcropping, Ryan shouted, “You take care of him.”
I pointed my pistol at Martin Hunt. “Down on your knees. Hands above your head.”
He complied. Now that he knew a couple of cops had seen him throw a person into the reservoir, his usual smirk was gone, but his face showed no fear or anxiety. His decision to kill Abby told me he thought whatever penalty he now faced was less than he would have faced if she lived—and talked.
I grabbed him by the back of the collar and pushed his face into the dirt. I pulled his arms behind his back and cuffed him. “On your feet.” I pulled him up and marched him over to the handrail, unlocked one of the cuffs, and locked him to the handrail.
I ran over to Ryan. “What are you doing?” I said. He had slipped his shoes off. His sweatshirt lay on the dirt, his keys, wallet, and phone sitting on it.
“Get over to the powerhouse,” Ryan said. “They’ll have some life rings.”
“Don’t do it,” I shouted to him.
“I saw where she went in.” He ran over to the outcropping and leapt off, arcing out over the rock face in a graceful swam dive. I stood there, paralyzed, watching Ryan slide into the dark water. Twenty yards beyond where Ryan went in, I could just pick out Abby’s blond hair rising out of the water, then sinking back down below it. I couldn’t tell if she was alive, but she was face down, drifting toward the barrier line with the orange basketballs.
I didn’t see Ryan emerge. “Shit.” I grabbed his stuff and ran back to my Honda. I started it up and floored it. It pinged like crazy, but it got me to the powerhouse in ten seconds. I slammed on the brakes and ran inside. A woman sat at the reception desk, working on a computer. Her name tag said Susan.
I had my shield around my neck. “This is an emergency. There’s two people in the water, headed for the input. Turn off the water.”
“Oh, my God.” She leapt out of her chair and ran toward the far side of the room, where a door led into the interior of the powerhouse. “Come with me.” We ran down a dimly lit tiled corridor that seemed to go on forever. We passed all kinds of doors on both sides of the corridor before she threw open the one marked Control Room.
A young man sat at a desk built into a wall. Looking up from a bank of monitors full of graphs and readouts, he wore an expression halfway between alarm and resentment. “What is it, Susan? Who is this?”
“She’s police.”
I pushed her aside. His ID badge hanging around his neck said Wayne. “Listen to me, Wayne. There’s two people in the water. Turn off the intake to the dam.”
“What are you talking about? Where are they?”
I pointed. “They’re on the input side. One of them’s injured. The other one dove in to get her. I can’t see him. He didn’t come up. They’re headed toward the intake tunnel.”
“When did this happen?”
“Listen to me.” I was shouting now. “I’m a cop. There’s two people being pulled toward the intake. Turn off the fucking water. NOW.”
“I need more information before I can do that. This is a crossflow turbine. If I turn off the water now, it’s going to damage the turbine. I don’t have the authority to do that.”
I unholstered my pistol and held the barrel against his nose. “Here’s your authority. Do it right now or I will shoot you.”
Susan screamed. The guy got out of his chair and rushed over to a panel of dials and buttons to his right. He looked back at me to see if I was serious.
“NOW.”
He pushed a red button marked Emergency Shutdown.
I felt a shudder and then a little shaking, like when a washing machine starts spinning in the other room. “Do you have life rings or something?”
“Follow me.” He hurried out of the control room, with me and Susan following him. We ran down more corridors. He opened a door marked Flotation and came back out with three life rings with long lengths of rope attached. He ran farther down the corridor, then pushed open a door marked East Exit.
We emerged into the bright sunshine. After the dimly lit corridors, the sun reflecting off the water blinded me. After a few seconds, I could look over the handrail down at the green-black water.
“Why is it still swirling?” I could hear I was shouting.
“It takes a while for the emergency gates to lower and stop the water input.”
“Look for them.” I was shouting at Wayne and Susan. “A young woman, blond hair. A man, dark hair. Look for them, now.”
With the breeze kicking up whitecaps and the currents and whirlpools whipping the surface, it would have been nearly impossible to see them, even though we were standing only fifteen or twenty feet above the water.
“Do you have a boat or something?” I shouted to be heard over the roar of the output water spraying from the other side of the dam.
“We have a small boat, but it’ll take a few minutes to get it set up here. It takes two people.” He pointed toward the handrail. “There’s some rescue poles there you can use if we see them.” He turned to Susan. “Call the Fire Department. The Rescue Team.” She pulled out her cell.
I glanced at the three life rings on the concrete next to me. Thirty yards away, hanging on the handrail, was the rescue pole. “You two get the boat set up. I’ll stay here. Do it, now.”
They ran off to get the boat. I scanned the surface, which was still full of whitecaps and whirlpools. It must have been almost two minutes since Ryan hit the frigid water. A pain began in my stomach, a stabbing pain that turned sharper and sharper. My knees buckled and I doubled over and sank to the concrete. I heard myself groaning and felt the hot tears streaming down my cheeks. As a feeling of dread swept over me, I closed my eyes to shut out the pain.
Then I realized I was the only one here to look out over the water. I struggled to get control of myself, wiping my eyes with the backs of my hands. Grabbing onto the handrail, I pulled myself to my feet and tried to focus on the dark water gleaming in the sunshine. But I saw nothing.
I gripped the handrail with all my strength, forcing myself to stay standing and do the only thing I could think to do. I told myself I could fall apart later, but I knew it would be only a few more seconds before it was over. I cried out Ryan’s name, but nobody in the water could have heard me. I was weeping and groaning, a wave of remorse and panic crushing me as I struggled to stay standing, to keep thinking, to keep breathing.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw some motion over to the side, right up against the wall of the dam. I ran over to it. It was a hand emerging from the green-black water. It gripped the bottom rung of the steel emergency ladder bolted to the side of the dam.
I cried out, “Ryan.”
I saw th
e back of a figure emerge from the water. I recognized Abby’s white T-shirt and dark blue skinny jeans. Her arms and legs were still invisible. I needed a second to understand what I was seeing. Abby’s trunk rose out of the water, her arms and legs still submerged. Then I saw Ryan’s other hand grab the second rung of the ladder. He had Abby over his right shoulder and was lifting the two of them out of the water.
I climbed over the handrail and started down the ladder. Normally, this would have scared the shit out of me, but the shit was already scared out of me. I made it down the twelve rungs. Hanging on with one hand, I wedged my arm between Abby’s waist and Ryan’s shoulder.
“You got her?” Ryan said.
“I got her.” With Ryan pushing and me pulling, rung after rung, we climbed the ladder. When I made it to the top, I didn’t have the strength to heave her over the handrail.
Ryan said, “Just hold onto her, one more second.” He got one foot onto the concrete walkway and grabbed the handrail. Grunting, he hoisted Abby onto the handrail, her legs dangling out over the reservoir, her trunk, head, and arms over the concrete walkway. I pulled myself up and over the handrail and collapsed onto the walkway. Ryan climbed over the handrail, scooped up Abby, and lowered her to the walkway.
As he stood there, hands on his knees, breathing heavily and shivering, I began CPR on Abby. Her skin, normally pale, was ghostly white. She was unresponsive.
I did the thirty chest compressions, then closed off her nostrils and breathed into her mouth as hard as I could. Three time, five times. Nothing. “She’s gone.”
“Keep going, Karen. You’re doing great.” I worked for another minute.
Ryan could see me getting winded and discouraged. “Let me try it.” He knelt beside her and started the rescue breathing. He kept at it for two minutes.
I heard the whine of a small outboard motor cutting through the roar from the output spray. I looked over the side of dam. Wayne and Susan were in a small rubber dinghy. I called out to him, “They’re up here.”
He shouted “Okay” as Susan tethered the dinghy to the bottom rung of the ladder. The two of them pulled themselves up the ladder.