by Meera Lester
Abby hurried to the door, pushed it open, and entered the dank, cool stairwell, where she sprinted up the concrete steps. Pushing open the second-floor door and stepping out into a hallway, she saw a sign with an arrow indicating the direction to the waiting area. She spotted Jack pacing toward her. She dashed into his embrace.
He exhaled a long sigh. “Thank you for coming, my girl,” he said, stroking her hair. “Can you believe this?”
“Thank God it wasn’t you,” Abby said, easing out of his embrace to glance toward the operating-room doors. The area smelled of air freshener, used to cover up the other disagreeable scents that permeated the environment, but Abby could still smell them—antiseptic mouthwash, hand sanitizer, iodine, alcohol, and stale coffee.
Jack led her to a dimly lit alcove with six identical chairs next to a small table, with a slew of magazines strewn about. He fixed his pale eyes on hers, as if anticipating a barrage of questions.
“What exactly happened?” Abby asked.
“The police say it was a drive-by. Tom was alone in his truck and, apparently, the target,” Jack said. “An eyewitness in a Ford Escort had followed Tom for some distance when a motorcyclist cut in between the Escort and the truck. When the road straightened out of the switchbacks, the biker pulled even with Tom’s truck and fired two shots into the cab.”
“Oh, my gosh,” Abby said. “Then what happened?”
Jack took a deep breath and exhaled. “The truck went into a skid. Tom—despite being seriously wounded—apparently fought for control of his pickup. You know, Abby, there are places up there where there are no guardrails. That was one of them.”
Abby nodded. “So he got the truck stopped.”
Jack nodded. “In the nick of time and inches from a slide-area drop-off.”
After a moment of silence, she asked, “So . . . how serious are his injuries?”
“The bullet wound caused massive blood loss. The police told me that the medics decided to transport him right away, instead of stabilizing him on scene. I think he has a collapsed lung, too. They said he needed a chest tube.”
“Oh, Lord. Poor Tom,” said Abby. “Have you spoken with his doctors yet?”
“Yes. They’re encouraging. Told me he’s lucky to be alive. Barring complications in surgery, he should pull through.”
Abby’s mind raced. “But why was Tom the target? His whole world seemed to be that commune.”
“My opinion . . . Dak Harmon may have done this,” Jack said.
“Hmm,” Abby said, wondering why Jack had formed that opinion, except that he’d seen firsthand Dak Harmon’s violent streak. Her stomach churned as she recalled how Dak had hit her.
After a few minutes of sitting quietly, waiting for news from the doctor, Abby looked over at the elevator doors that had just opened. Kat strolled out of the elevator, walked toward them, and sank into a chair.
“We’re so glad to see you, Kat. Piece this together for us, will you?” Abby said.
Kat began talking even as she removed the flip-over notebook from her shirt pocket. “Well, we’re still working it ourselves. As Abby knows, we tend to be guarded about giving out a lot of information until we have a clear picture of the case ourselves, but we do try to keep the victim’s family updated.” Kat looked over at Jack. “There was an eyewitness driving from Boulder Bluff, on his way home. He witnessed the shooting of Tom by a tall, thin man on a motorcycle, wearing a touring helmet—full face hidden by the helmet mask—black jeans and shirt.” Kat peered at the pages of her notebook, flipping through them one by one. “The witness also said he thought there was some kind of scarf sticking out of the shirt collar. He called the emergency number and stayed on scene until the medics and law enforcement arrived.”
Abby stopped Kat for a second. “Wait a minute. Did you say that the eyewitness described the shooter as tall and thin?”
Kat nodded.
Abby looked at Jack. “That can’t be Dak Harmon. He’s stocky and heavyset. So if it wasn’t Dak—and why would he want to kill Tom, anyway?—who else could it have been, and what was the motive?”
“We’re looking into it,” said Kat. “We believe the shooter used a forty-five-caliber automatic pistol. We found a casing on the road. We’ve got ballistics over at the crime lab, working on it. In the meantime, we just have to wait for input on the size caliber and also the type of firearm. A lot depends on scrutinizing the firing-pin indentations, as you know.”
“When you saw Tom, was he still conscious?” Abby asked.
“No,” said Kat. “He’d been hit by flying glass to the face and upper body. The gunshot pierced the left side of his upper chest, and he suffered a loss of blood and consciousness. His lips and nail beds were that cyanotic blue hue you get when you’re not being properly oxygenated.”
“So have you come to check on him?” asked Jack.
“I’m here to interrogate him as soon as he wakes up.” Kat chewed her lip. “I’ll be brief, but there are facts we need to get.”
Abby nodded and put a reassuring hand on Jack’s shoulder.
Kat looked at Abby. “With our resources stretched so thin, it could be a while until we get to the bottom of this. What I wouldn’t give for a forensic expert all our own to help us to determine bullet distance, angle, trajectory, sequence, and a thousand other little details.”
“Maybe the homicide guys helping Otto on Fiona’s murder investigation,” Abby said, “could look at this, too.”
Her optimism was met with a shake of Kat’s head. “Not likely.”
“Listen, Kat, my gut tells me there’s a link between Fiona’s murder and the attempt on Tom’s life.”
“Yeah, I think so, too,” Kat said. “But you know we also have to set aside our personal opinions and let the evidence lead us to the right conclusion. The DA can’t prosecute a case based on a gut feeling.”
“You think Tom knows who tried to kill him?” Jack asked.
“Possibly.” Kat returned her notebook to her pocket and folded her hands in her lap. “I certainly think the shooting was no accident.”
Jack chewed the corner of his lower lip.
Kat leaned toward him. “You met with Tom recently, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Abby and I both did.”
“Well, technically, you met with Tom,” said Abby. “I looked around the commune grounds and got this shiner to show for it,” she said, pointing to her eye.
“What did you and Tom talk about?” Kat asked.
Jack sniffed and furrowed his brow, as though trying to remember. “I asked him if he had anything to do with my sister’s death or if he knew who did.”
“And what did he say?” asked Kat.
“He adamantly denied he had anything to do with her death.”
“Do you believe him?” Kat asked, pressing on.
“Of course. Tom is no killer.”
“Did he know anyone with a reason to hurt Fiona?” Kat asked.
Jack glanced at Abby. “Maybe, but he didn’t name anybody,” said Jack. Looking at Kat, Jack said, “My brother-in-law said that the commune was changing and that Fiona had been outspoken about it. I guess the new leaders have a life of ease, even luxury, with all the residents working at the commune or in the commune’s various businesses. Premalatha, in particular, had a bad history with Fiona, according to Tom.”
“Bad history? What are we talking about here?” Kat asked.
Jack straightened and leaned back into his chair. “Fiona told me that once the old leader returned to India, Hayden Marks and Premalatha Baxter were to share equally the old guy’s spiritual power. They said he’d passed it on to them. Those two began implementing the changes. Hayden Marks became the ‘official leader,’ and Premalatha Baxter assumed the role of commune manager and banker. She recently bought a new BMW Alpina for her and Hayden Marks to share. One assumes she used the money collected from the commune folks to make the purchase. I don’t even own a car, but I know this much—that par
ticular model costs over a hundred grand.”
Kat made a soft whistling sound. “That’s a lot of moola.”
Jack rubbed his hand across his cheek. “I don’t know if this is relevant, but during our conversation that day, Tom told me about a promise he made to Fiona.”
“What promise?” Abby and Kat asked in unison.
“My sister told Tom that he had to promise he would leave the commune if anything ever happened to her. And not only that, but she made him swear to go to the police with everything he knew about the place, its dealings, and Hayden Marks and Premalatha Baxter.”
“So, did Tom go to the police, like Fiona had asked?” Abby searched Jack’s eyes.
Jack looked at her briefly and then turned his attention back to Kat. “No. I think he was scared. Tom said there could be severe reprisals against people who reveal what goes on inside the commune world.”
“It appears that’s exactly what happened to him after he talked with you,” said Kat. “Did Tom reveal anything about Baxter or Marks to warrant involvement by law enforcement?”
Jack arched a brow. “Tom told me Hayden Marks hired outside help for special situations. He told me that two other people who threatened Marks ended up leaving the commune. Tom said no one knew how, when, or why they left. They just disappeared.”
Kat leaned forward, with forearms on her knees, palms clasped together. “That sounds ominous. Did he mention any names?”
Jack shook his head. “No. Do you really think Tom’s chat with me was the reason he got shot?”
Before Kat could answer, a call came over her two-way. She pressed her fingers to her lips, signaling the need for silence.
“Interviewing Tom Dodge can wait,” Chief Bob Allen said to Kat. His voice sounded loud and clear. “We’ve got an address for the registered owner of the motorcycle used in the drive-by. I need you and Otto to do a knock and talk.”
“On it, Chief,” Kat said. She rose to leave. Turning back, she told Abby, “Text me when Tom is awake.... I need to ask him some questions.”
Abby nodded, but before she could ask Kat to inquire of the chief the bike owner’s name, Kat disappeared behind the closing elevator doors.
Tips to Ensure Success in the Making of Mead (Honey Wine)
Mead may have been the first fermented beverage enjoyed by the ancients, brewed before wine, beer, and other alcoholic spirits were created and became popular. The ingredients list for mead is simple enough: honey, spring water, and yeast. Today other ingredients, such as rose petals, orange slices, raisins, cloves, vanilla, and chocolate, are sometimes added to impart unique flavors to the mead. There are many mead recipes on the Internet and in beverage books; however, in all the recipes, honey remains the most important flavor ingredient. When making mead, be sure to do the following:
• Always follow sanitary procedures to avoid introducing bacteria into the brew.
• Always use an organic, unadulterated honey for best results.
• Ensure that there are no bubbles in the mead and that it is clear before bottling it.
• Permit the mead to age several months to temper its sweetness.
Chapter 17
The drones’ sole purpose in life is to mate with
the queen, and then they die. Those that don’t
mate are useless and are kicked out at summer’s
end to conserve the colony’s resources.
—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac
Slumped in the hospital waiting room chair, Abby jerked upright to reorient herself. The elevator doors banged open, and a man and a woman stepped out, carrying a cooler, and conversed as they hurried past her. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she looked over at Jack, who apparently had been observing her every movement.
“Sorry . . . uh . . . I . . . How long was I out for?” she stammered.
Jack glanced at his watch. “Forty-five minutes.” As if something else was occupying his thoughts, his brow furrowed. “What do you think was in that cooler those two people were carrying into the OR?”
Abby yawned. “Dunno. Maybe a donated organ. They have to keep it on ice.”
“Oh, yeah. That makes sense.” He shifted his position in the chair and crossed his long legs. “You know, you’re kind of cute when you’re sleeping.” A broad grin creased his cheeks.
“That, I doubt,” said Abby. She pulled the band from her hair and vigorously shook her reddish-gold mane before twisting it all back into a messy bun on top of her head. “Did you sleep?”
“No,” he replied. “Couldn’t. Too much going on in my noggin.”
Abby plucked up the remaining errant tendrils and pushed them into the bun. “Boy, do I need a shower,” she groaned and then stifled another yawn. “And my teeth feel fuzzy.” Remembering that she usually kept a travel toothbrush in her daypack, she picked up the pack and unzipped the side pocket. “Has anyone from surgery come out to give you an update on Tom?”
“Once. The doctor didn’t say much, except that Tom made it off the table and is recovering in the ICU,” said Jack. He uncrossed his legs and shifted his position again. “A nurse showed me where it is and told me we can have five-minute visits every hour. She told me not to be surprised by all the lines they’ve got in him. Apparently, he’s on IVs, a heart monitor, and a respirator, but they’re going to take him off that as soon as he wakes up.”
“That’s good news,” Abby said, rezipping her pack. “I’m sorry to have snoozed through all that.”
“Sun’s not up yet. You were tired. It’s quiet here.”
She rifled through her pack’s inner pockets. “I guess I don’t have that darn toothbrush, after all. Suppose I could get one in the gift shop, but it doesn’t open until nine. So . . . what about some coffee?”
Jack nodded. “Sounds good. I smell it, but for the life of me, I can’t locate the pot.”
“I suppose that’s by design,” said Abby. She stood and touched her toes, holding the stretch for a few seconds. “They’ll have a pot in the cafeteria on the first floor. Why don’t we meet there in five or ten minutes?”
Jack, suddenly enthusiastic, said, “Let’s go now.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather have a few minutes to wash my face,” she said, reaching for her daypack. “I never look my best crawling out of bed in the morning, so I doubt my appearance is any better after sitting up all night.” She only hoped she hadn’t snored. With a smile and a squeeze of Jack’s hand, Abby left for the ladies’ room in the downstairs ER lobby.
After she’d washed up, brushed through her hair, and applied a swipe of lip gloss, she sent a text to Clay, explaining why she hadn’t returned home during the night. To her surprise, her cell phone rang, with Clay calling back. Despite his mood seeming sullen, Abby did her best to sound upbeat as she shared the good news about Tom making it through the night. But from Clay’s silences and one-word answers to her questions about whether he had slept well and whether Sugar had been on her best behavior, Abby knew he was mad and was not interested in hearing her excuses, no matter how good and true they might be.
In a parting shot, Clay said, “I told you long ago if we ever reached a point where we couldn’t make things work, we should just keep on walking. I want you to think about that, Abby.”
Abby blew air between her lips. “Look, I guess we can talk about this when I get home. I should be there by lunchtime.”
“Whatever,” Clay replied. He ended the call.
From the ladies’ room, Abby headed to the cafeteria and bought a cup of coffee. Not seeing Jack, she paid the cashier and then located a seat nearest the cafeteria door so Jack would see her when he walked in. After a few sips of coffee, Abby dialed Kat’s number.
Kat answered with a sleepy “Yeah?”
“Did I wake you?”
“Yeah. What’s up?”
“Sorry. I’ll be brief. Thought you’d want to know that Tom is out of surgery and is recovering in the ICU. We haven’t seen him yet.”
; “Huh.”
“And . . . I was wondering if you know any more about that motorcycle rider who shot Tom, or about the bike’s registered owner.”
“Do we have to have this conversation now, Abby?”
“No, of course not.” Abby winced. “I’m being thoughtless. I should’ve known you were sleeping. Call me later, okay?”
“Wait.” Kat exhaled a long sigh. “Are you obsessing about something?”
“Only about a dozen somethings. You know me too well. So, let me just ask about one thing that’s really bothering me. Tom’s shooter was on a motorcycle. Have you and Otto spoken with the owner of that bike yet?”
“Yes,” Kat said sleepily. “The cycle belongs to Gus Morales, the mechanic who owns the mountain garage. He keeps a couple of vehicles in his shop as loaners for customers whose cars are in for servicing. One of his loaner vehicles is that older-model Harley motorcycle.”
“What’s his connection to Tom?”
“None we could find. He doesn’t know Tom. Never done work on Tom’s truck. But he’s got a nephew named Billy, a marketing whiz, to hear him tell it. Billy has generated some business between the commune residents— those who still have vehicles—and his uncle, who services them.”
Abby’s thoughts raced ahead. “I get it. So the nephew is responsible for those flyers, too?”
“What flyers?” Kat asked sleepily.
“The ones we were given at the commune when Jack and I went to see Tom the day Dak Harmon and I had our tussle.”
“Ohhh.” Kat yawned.
“So no one from the LFPD has interrogated the nephew?”
“Not yet.”
“But you say that older-model Harley is a loaner? So if that loaner was used by Tom’s shooter, whose bike is in the shop, being repaired?”
“One of the commune members who paid for the servicing up front in cash brought in a motorcycle for Morales to fix. That fellow took the loaner bike back to the commune.”
“Ah, so . . . it’s likely that a resident of the commune owns the bike being fixed in the mountain garage . . . and any commune resident could have access to the loaner. Okay, Kat. Thanks. Go back to sleep, and we’ll talk later.”