With Deadly Intent

Home > Other > With Deadly Intent > Page 7
With Deadly Intent Page 7

by Louise Hendricksen


  His precautions had been forced on him by necessity. The penny-pinching county council frowned on up-dating the medical examiner's antiquated lab in Faircliff. Exasperated by their lack of foresight, her father had set up and furnished his own forensic laboratory. As a consequence, he stored much of the physical evidence he gathered here at home—a practice that galled Sheriff Calder.

  She flipped a switch, triggering banks of ceiling fluorescents, and descended into the cool, white depths. Beside a microscope sat several dated, numbered, and sealed polyethylene bags. Each held material she and B.J. had vacuumed onto paper filters while examining Oren's apartment.

  Processing the rug lint and microscopic particles proved time consuming and unrewarding. Two hour's labor produced only one item of interest—a number of gray, one millimeter long fibers. She'd have to use some of the instruments at the crime lab to determine the chemical composition.

  She prepared several slides to take to Seattle when she returned, and browsed around in search of the bloodstained material. A table she passed contained the footprint casts she'd made. She paused to examine each with a magnifying glass, before continuing her hunt.

  As she poked through head-high, metal shelf racks, a faint niggling began at the back of her mind. Something about the casts didn't quite ... Two separately packaged shoes witih Oren's case number rested on a lower shelf. Her father had probably already compared them to the print. Still, she wanted to be certain they hadn't overlooked some vital detail.

  She set one of the shoes in the most distinct cast—a perfect match. Stone by stone, she continued to build a prison around Oren.

  She sighed, went upstairs and found her father alone. “Thought I'd try to process the blood-stained stuff. Where is everything?”

  “Locked in Tom's property room. He and the prosecuting attorney claim any decisions I make are bound to be prejudiced. They've put in a request for an impartial medical examiner.”

  “Great. That's all Oren needs.” She slumped onto a ladder backed chair. “Where's Simon?”

  “He took a lot of notes and retired to my study to write his article.” B.J. set a plate of cookies on the table, poured her a glass of milk and returned to his chair. “Interesting young man.” He eyed her closely. “Don't you think so?”

  She bit into a cookie. “M-m-m-m,” she said, using her eating as an excuse to be noncommittal.

  “Been everywhere.” B.J. persisted, his manner still suspiciously watchful. “Seen a lot. Got several awards for outstanding journalism.”

  She studied him over the rim of her glass. Don't start, Dad. “If he spent the morning talking about himself, when did he have time to interview you?”

  A pink tinge spread over B.J.'s cheeks. “Wasn't him, I did a bit of checking.”

  She shoved the plate of cookies aside. “Don't go getting ideas. Simon and I have only one interest in common, and that's Oren.”

  He moved the blue willowware sugar bowl an inch and lined the creamer up beside it. “A doctor or a nurse might get more information at that hospital in White Bird, Montana.”

  Still frowning, she mulled over his remark. Hospital personnel weren't necessarily loyal to each other, but let a lay person threaten any one of them and they formed a tight circle of silence. Only people in white penetrated the sanctum sanctorum. “You may be right.”

  His blue eyes glinted as he beamed at her. “Sure I am.”

  “Shouldn't the evidence we gathered come first?”

  “No sense in doing much until the blood work is done. Besides, it won't take you more than a couple of days.”

  She scowled at him. “Are you sure you're not just trying to throw me and Simon together?”

  “Ah ... honey. I only want...” His fingers curled into a fist. “Dammit, it's time you forgot what that no-good bastard did to you and got on with your life.”

  She stood up so fast her chair tipped back against the wainscoted wall. “I'll decide.” She took off for the study, her heels thudding the carpet at every step.

  As she entered, Simon glanced up from where he sat at her father's desk. “Just the person I wanted to talk to.”

  She stopped short. Blast him, he always managed to put her off balance. “Oh ... what about?”

  He pushed his laptop computer to one side. “Mind if I mention your name in my article? B.J. says you two plan on going into the forensic consulting business. If my editor decides this is worth printing, it'll give you a lot of visibility.”

  Who was he really thinking about—her or himself? She scraped her shoe against her left ankle while she thought over his suggestion. “Wouldn't hurt I guess. Our profession needs informed, intelligent exposure—and it's difficult to come by.”

  “Fine.” He pulled his computer in front of him, bent over the keys and seemed to forget she was present.

  After shifting from one foot to the other several times, she screwed up her courage. “I'm going with you.”

  He straightened so quickly the computer case shot halfway across the desk. “You are not. I'm in no mood to cope with a woman—any woman.”

  She planted her hands on her hips. “With, or without you, I'm going.” They glowered at each other.

  “Jesus Christ, Amy, one woman's already been killed. I could be walking into all kinds of trouble.”

  She stood her ground. “'Yeah, and you're in great shape to walk anywhere.”

  He opened his mouth as if to give her an argument. Closed it, and shrugged. “Take some warm clothes.”

  Two hours later, when she drove the station wagon up the hill to pick up Simon, her father handed her a large brown envelope. “Helen and I did some creative thinking,” he said. “We figured you'd learn more if they think you're applying for a position as a nurse. So we fabricated a great resume and gave you a faultless recommendation on my old letterhead paper. We even invented a private hospital and administrator to applaud your superior qualifications and ran it off on a desktop printer.”

  She shook her head. “Dad, I do believe you have a criminal mind.” She pulled out the resume and saw Amy Jamison printed at the top of the page. “Did you have to make it in my married name for heaven's sake?”

  “We decided you shouldn't go in under Prescott. They may have seen my name and Oren's in the papers.” He kissed her goodbye, and went around the car to grip Simon's hand. “Come back real soon.” He smiled and waved as they drove away. “Take care.”

  When they arrived in Seattle, Simon had her drive past Global News so he could drop off the computer disk with his story, At 8 p.m., they caught Western Airlines flight out of SeaTac, changed planes twice and reached Lewistown, Montana at 7 a.m. As the fifteen seat Cessna circled for a landing, she noticed straight streets and many trees. The town was probably pretty as a picture postcard in summer. Now, it looked stark and cold.

  When they disembarked she found the frigid, milky white air full of spinning ice crystals. The passengers hunched their shoulders and set off toward the waiting room. Simon followed, testing the icy pavement with his crutches before each swing forward. She straggled along behind lugging both their bags. The sound of the plane's engines still roared inside her head, setting up a painful throb.

  Simon asked several of the passengers if they were going into town. A man who stood about six foot four, and looked as if he'd been born in his sweat-stained, low-crowned Stetson, Levi jacket, and jeans said, “Sure thing.” He stuck out his hand. “I'm Clyde Freeman, owner of the Circle R ranch.”

  Simon shook his proffered hand, Simon introduced himself and Amy. “We'd appreciate it, if you'd give us a ride.”

  Mr. Freeman touched the brim of his hat, but his gaze didn't even acknowledge her presence. “Be glad to.” He led the way to a mud-caked 1973 Buick, took the two bags she carried and jerked his head toward the back seat. After stowing the bags in the trunk, he smiled at Simon and opened the front door. “Sit up here, son.”

  Simon caught her eye, raised his brows and followed the rancher's directions
. “You ever been to White Bird?” he asked after they were under way.

  “Once or twice. You think this is cold? Don't hold a candle to White Bird.”

  Amy huddled in a corner of the backseat trying not to let her teeth chatter. She wore a flannel shirt, wool slacks, and a hooded coat, and still the cold sliced through as if she had nothing on.

  Mr. Freeman lit a cigar and puffed a couple times until the fat tip glowed. “Wouldn't go near the place ‘less I had friends there,” he said.

  “Oh? Why is that?” Amy asked. He made no reply until Simon repeated the question.

  The big man grasped his cigar between two meaty fingers and swiveled his head toward Simon. “You still going?”

  Simon frowned. “Of course we're going.”

  “Then I won't waste my breath.” He jammed his cigar back in his mouth.

  Seven

  Thursday, October 27

  Amy headed out of Lewistown on Highway 191. The car rental agency had had only a rather battered Toyota station wagon available. They hadn't quibbled. They'd already learned the bus traveled to White Bird only every other day. Besides, the Toyota had four-wheel drive and she might need it before they reached their destination.

  “Were you able to find some warm clothing?” she asked.

  Simon smiled and patted his leg. “Two piece thermals. Sure is an improvement. How about you?”

  She shook her head. “I guess someone who's five foot five isn't supposed to wear a size four.”

  His heavy brows drew together. “Are you warm enough?”

  “I brought a sweater and some extra socks. They help a little.”

  The road traveled past ranches and harrowed wheat fields. Frost laced every tree, every building, and every fence post. According to their map. White Bird lay in the Judith Mountains fifty or sixty miles to the northeast.

  As she drove, she mulled over what she'd learned about Elise: attractive, moody, evidently someone who manipulated men. She frowned. What had Simon meant by “games.” Perhaps, Elise had bruised his and Oren's male ego—sufficient reason for both of them to want to keep it to themselves—but frustrating for someone trying to investigate a murder.

  She looked over at Simon and smiled. He had the trouser leg of his suit stretched taut. His brows drawn together in a scowl, he gripped the razor blade he held, and concentrated on cutting stitches instead of blue worsted wool. “It's refreshing to meet a man who isn't helpless. Mitch couldn't cook, clean, or even make a bed.”

  Simon pushed his glasses farther up his nose. “Any man can. Maybe Mitch didn't want to.”

  “Probably. He was adept at side-stepping responsibility.”

  Simon studied her before returning to his task. “I'll be an expert seamstress by the time my ankle is healed.”

  She grinned. “Then you'll have another skill to fall back on in case your writing...” Oh, God, how stupid could she get? She glanced at him almost fearfully. He sat terribly still with tiny drops of blood oozing from a thin red line along his thumb. “I'm sorry, Simon. I didn't think.” She stopped the car and pawed through her purse until she found a Band-Aid. He didn't resist when she took his hand and wrapped the Band-Aid across the cut.

  After she finished, he released a long breath. “That's a nightmare every writer has to learn to live with.” He gave a hollow laugh. “To quote my father, ‘then I can get a real job.'”

  She squeezed the hand she still held. “I'm sure you're much too critical of your work.” She found herself becoming acutely conscious of the warmth of his hand. She quickly set it back in his lap and got the car under way.

  At a sign post, she turned off the highway onto a two-lane road. Before many miles had passed, the cultivated land gave way to stretches of sage brush broken by deep gullies. The air had cleared, but a gray sky brushed the tops of shadowed mountains spanning the horizon.

  They brought to mind the mountains at home, and from somewhere in her subconscious, an idea Surfaced. “I wonder how Elise got from Seattle to the ferry dock last Friday?”

  Simon gazed out the window at the harsh, shrub-dotted scenery. “She used to own a sports car.”

  “Suppose she still owned one. Where would it be?”

  “Possibly at the ferry dock in either Anacortes or Faircliff.” He chewed his lip. “I should think the sheriff would have checked that out first thing.”

  “Probably. I haven't talked to Tom Calder and he's not apt to tell me much when I do. But, if he hasn't found her car, we should try to. It could be important.”

  “I'll scout around when we get back.” He fiddled with the heater control. “This thing is blowing cold air.” Nothing he did seemed to bring forth heat, finally he turned it off. “We're going to get damned cold, Amy. Maybe we'd better turn around.”

  “Let's chance it. Shouldn't take us more than thirty minutes to get to White Bird.”

  “Okay ... but just remember weather like this can be deadly”

  She shivered. “I don't doubt it.” The road straightened and her optimism rose as she increased her speed. The restful interval lasted for only a few miles before rough, pot-holed pavement slowed her to a crawl. Then it began to snow. The flakes weren't the big, fat, lazy kind—these whirled m a white mass. They upset her depth perception, disoriented her, and made her dizzy;

  Her concentration became so intense, she jumped when Simon spoke. “Hm-m-m? ... What did you say?”

  “Can you feel your toes and fingers?”

  She tried to think. “I don't know. They're just kind of a dead weight.”

  “Stop the car.”

  She stepped on the brake but had no sensation of doing so.

  “Stamp your feet. Slap your hands together, blow on them.”

  She did as he instructed.

  “Anything?”

  “They feel as if I could break them off like dried sticks.”

  “Get out of the car.”

  She stared at him. “Into that? You must be nuts.”

  “Do it, dammit, and don't give me any argument.” He got out on his side and teetered on one leg, so she reluctantly opened her door. “Run around the car. When you feel your feet you can stop.” He balanced himself by holding onto the door and began to hop up and down.

  She pulled up the hood of her coat and stuffed numb fingers in her pockets. Stiff legged as a female Frankenstein, she began to clump around the Toyota. She skidded and fell on the slippery blacktop.

  “You all right?” Simon grabbed his crutches and started toward her.

  “No, no ... stay where you are.” She pushed herself upright. “You don't need any more fractures.” Ice-edged sleet stinging her face, she slogged round and round. Finally, she slumped against a fender beside him.

  “Better?”

  “Slightly.” She plodded around to her side of the car. Each creaky movement of her joints took twice as much effort as usual and with the return of circulation came pain. She got inside and sat down before the cramps began in earnest.

  “Damn, oh, damn.” She gripped the steering wheel and clinched her teeth in an attempt to hide her agony, yet a whimper escaped her.

  “Hurts like hell, doesn't it?”

  She could only nod.

  “As a rule, my internal heater keeps me warm, but one night in China, I thought I'd bought it for sure. An old man found me and thawed me out. Then I really wanted to die.”

  By the time she'd recovered enough to go on, the snow had changed to bigger, slower flakes. With improved visibility, she hoped the remaining miles would go faster.

  The road wound through the mountains, growing steeper and rougher with every turn of the wheels and another hour passed before she began to see scattered hovels perched on the hillsides. Black smoke billowed from tin stove pipes protruding from tarpaper roofs. Hunks of cardboard patched broken windows and at least three half-dismantled cars littered each yard.

  Simon looked at her and grinned impishly. “Want to go halves on one of these cozy little bungalows?”
/>   She laughed. “Doubt if I could afford it. Real estate values must be out of sight.”

  The town was situated in a narrow cleft with cliffs rising on either side. Tufts of frost-blackened grass sprouted from cracked sidewalks, a row of half-dead trees pointed broken white snags at the sky. In the distant past, a stonemason had erected half a dozen ponderous rough granite structures. All were square with few windows and the man had made no attempt to soften or beautify the stern facades. Several of the buildings appeared vacant—doors stood ajar, windows had been smashed, and wild, untrimmed shrubbery surrounded them.

  “Beautiful downtown White Bird.” Simon rubbed a hole in the steam clouded windshield and peered out. “There's a restaurant up ahead. Let's grab a bite, then use their rest room to change into our powerhouse duds.”

  She glanced at her watch. Simon had an appointment with Marchmont Hospital's administrator at two-thirty. She had one with the Director of Nurses at three. “Ought to work out just right.”

  Inside, wonderful warmth enveloped her. Sharp tingling in her fingers and toes blunted her enjoyment and she sought to ignore it by looking over the place. Spurs, bridles, horse shoes, and blackened cattle brands decorated weathered barn board walls. They found a booth upholstered in saddle tan vinyl and sat down.

  Simon flashed a big smile when a waitress detached herself from a counter where she'd been leaning and came toward them. “Now watch the old Kittredge charm.”

  The young woman raised and lowered thickly mascaraed lashes and curved carmine lips into a smile. “Did you fall off your horse, Lancelot?”

  Simon's smile broadened. “Nope, a dragon took a bite out of it.”

  An ample hip clad in lime green nylon brushed his arm. “That's a crying shame. Good men are hard to find.” She pulled a pencil from her thatch of permed blonde hair, wet the tip, and leaned toward him displaying an astounding amount of cleavage. “See anything you'd like to have?”

 

‹ Prev