Dangling by a Thread

by Lea Wait

  “I recognized him.”

  “How is he? Is he conscious? Will he be all right?”

  “He’s still unconscious, receiving blood and antibiotics. We’re preparing him for surgery, to remove that arrow. We’ll know more after the surgery.”

  “He hit his head on the side of the boat, too.”

  She made a note. “We’ll schedule a CAT scan. He may have a concussion.”

  “How long before he wakes up? Or you know his condition?” Pete asked.

  “At least two hours. Maybe four. Maybe longer. We won’t know anything before he’s out of surgery.”

  I was wet with salt water and blood, and hungry and thirsty.

  “There’s nothing you can do now, and he won’t know you’re here. He might later,” Dr. Mercer added.

  I got it. I turned to Pete. “I’ll go home and change. Then I’ll come back.”

  “Nothing I can do now either. I’ve seen injured hunters before. Dave won’t be able to tell us much until tomorrow. But I will have to bring Jesse in.”

  Injured hunters. But Dave wasn’t an injured hunter. He’d been hunted.

  We walked outside together.

  “Jesse lives alone out there. He only has a skiff. He won’t disappear. What if I can get him to turn himself in?” I asked. “He knows me. Not as well as he knows Dave, but maybe he’ll listen to me.” Especially since he wouldn’t be able to protect his island and his birds if he were in jail.

  Pete looked at me. “You were out there. You saw what happened. You could be hurt.”

  “I don’t think he’d hurt me,” I said, I hoped convincingly. “Give me a chance. But first I need to know if Dave’s going to be all right. Jesse will want to know.” Plus, if Dave didn’t survive, Pete wouldn’t be talking about attempted murder. If that happened, I wouldn’t be able to help Jesse.

  “Lockhart’s been out on that island a couple of years now,” Pete said. “You’re right. Chances are he won’t go anywhere today. And he’s been a nuisance before this, but never violent. I’ll give you until sunset tomorrow to bring him in so I can talk with him. I’ll try to get Ethan here, too.”

  I gave Pete an unprofessional hug. “Thank you. I’ll do everything I can to get him to town.”

  “Anything I can do for you now?”

  “Drive me home?” I asked. I was exhausted. And I’d promised to go back to the hospital tonight and to King’s Island tomorrow.

  “Climb in,” he said, opening the door of his police car.

  I didn’t live far from the hospital, normally a five- or six-minute drive. But this was August. Out-of-state cars filled the streets, and we crept back downtown. I felt as though I’d left home months ago.

  I didn’t care if anyone saw me being escorted by the police. I just wanted to get home.

  How would I get to King’s Island? I didn’t even have a boat. Would Dave’s friend let me borrow the Sweet Life? I’d need to bail it out and wipe up the blood. And get more gasoline.

  I didn’t even know who owned the Sweet Life.

  Getting to King’s Island seemed impossible.

  I desperately needed to rest.

  Pete pulled into my driveway. “Keep in touch, Angie,” said Pete. “You have my number, right? Even if I’m off-duty. Let me know if you change your mind about talking to Jesse. Plus—I want to know how Dave is, too. He has a good rep around town. Kids at the high school love his poison classes.”

  Dave was probably the only high school biology teacher in the state of Maine who brought poison plants into his classroom to teach his students what they should look out for when they were camping or hiking. Or hunting. Dave’s poison garden, where he grew dangerous plants, was well-known in town.

  “I’ll keep in touch with the hospital and talk with Ethan, see if he has any advice. One piece of good news for your friend on the island: While you were talking to the doctor I made a fast call. Anyone using a crossbow has to have a license. A compound bow doesn’t require one.”

  “Good,” I said. One thing in Jesse’s favor.

  “But no hunting’s allowed on King’s Island no matter the month. So whatever happened out there was illegal.”

  I looked at him.

  “I know. You said it was an accident. But you have to understand what the law says.”

  “Thanks, Pete.”

  “Take care of yourself, Angie. Today wasn’t easy, and tomorrow won’t be either.”

  “I know.”

  I walked up the slate path from the driveway to my wide front porch.

  A white package was in front of my door.

  Chapter 21

  “Jesus permit thy gracious Name to stand

  As the first efforts of an Infant’s Hand,

  And while her fingers o’er this canvas move,

  Engage her tender ears to seek thy Love.”

  —Sampler inscribed “Mary Christeen Bohlayer age 13 years, Washington City, 1842.” Mary’s sampler also pictures a brick house with closed shutters and vases of flowers. The daughter of a butcher who’d emigrated from Germany, Mary married in 1852 and gave birth to six children before her death in 1867.

  I hadn’t been expecting any packages. Then I saw the small sticker on the side. COASTAL FLORIST. Someone sent me flowers? Dave was the one in the hospital.

  For a moment I wondered who’d died. I’d only gotten flowers once before: My boss in Arizona had sent them after I told him Mama was dead and I wouldn’t be returning to Mesa. At least not right away.

  I opened the box and took a step back. These were serious flowers. Quickly I counted. Three dozen long-stemmed red and pink and white roses.

  The card was tucked in a corner. “With hope we’ll have many evenings as lovely as last night’s. Patrick.”

  Patrick. I hadn’t thought of him once today.

  I scrounged through the kitchen cabinets and found a vase. The roses looked out of place on the pine kitchen table, but they were lovely.

  Maybe Patrick sent roses to everyone he had dinner with.

  I should call him.

  Catching a glimpse of myself in the front hall mirror, I decided first I needed to get cleaned up. And eat. And calm down.

  Time was important. I looked longingly at the claw-footed tub in the bathroom, but opted for a fast shower instead.

  Then I filled the tub with cold water and threw my bloodstained clothes in.

  The shower, a clean pair of jeans, and a bright red T-shirt (almost as red as the roses) revived me.

  I gulped a tuna sandwich and a few carrot sticks (vegetables were healthy, right?) as I sipped a little wine. Only half a glass; I had to drive back to the hospital. I’d have another, or something stronger, when I got back from the hospital. To celebrate, when I knew Dave was going to be all right.

  I should tell the Mainely Needlepointers about Dave. But where to start? Who to call?

  And what to say? I didn’t even know what condition he was in.

  When in doubt . . . I called Gram. She answered immediately. “Thank goodness! Are you all right, Angel? Carole Fitch told me she saw you down at the wharf covered with blood. I’ve been trying to reach you for hours. I was about to call the hospital.”

  I should remember to check for messages. After I’d called 911 I’d turned off my phone so I could focus on Dave. “Sorry, Gram. I’m fine. And home. Dave’s in surgery. I’m going back to the hospital in half an hour or so.”

  “What happened?”

  I’d only said a few words when Gram interrupted. “Stay right there, Angel. I’m coming over. I’ll go back to the hospital with you. Dave’s been my friend since he came to Haven Harbor.” She clicked off before I could say anything more.

  I quickly called Ruth and Anna, filling them in on what had happened. “What’s going to happen to the island now? And the cormorants?” Anna asked.

  “Right now I’m more worried about Dave,” I said. And Jesse, I added to myself. I was worried Jesse would be arrested.

  I called Patrick
to thank him for the flowers, but he didn’t answer. I was relieved. I didn’t feel like making small talk. He didn’t know Dave or Jesse, and right now I didn’t want to go through the whole story again.

  Before I’d put my cell down Gram walked in the front door and gave me a hug.

  Then she stared. “Where did all those roses come from?”

  “Patrick West sent them. We had dinner together last night.”

  “Just dinner?”

  “Yes, Gram.”

  “That Patrick’s always seemed like an old-style gentleman.” She sniffed the roses. “Hothouse roses. They don’t smell.”

  “I could take some to Dave.”

  “If he’s in surgery or recovery or intensive care they won’t let him have flowers. Roses will wait a day.” Gram took one more hopeful sniff and then shook her head. “So. Let’s get over to the hospital. You can tell me the details about Dave on our way. You sounded exhausted on the phone, so we’ll go in my car. It’s out front.”

  On the drive I filled her in on everything that had happened. Well, almost everything. I didn’t mention I’d promised to go back to King’s Island to convince Jesse to be questioned in Haven Harbor. I still had no idea how I was going to do that.

  “So The Solitary—sorry, Angie, but that’s how I think of him—shot Dave?”

  “When Dave goes out to King’s Island he’s usually alone. Jesse’s not good with a lot of people.” Although he’d been all right meeting Ruth and me at Dave’s home the other night. “He shot down at us from a cliff. He couldn’t see exactly who was in the boat.”

  “I didn’t know Dave had a boat.”

  “He borrowed one from a neighbor.”

  “So the boat should have been familiar to Jesse. And if he hit Dave with an arrow when Dave was in a moving boat he must have incredible aim and control.”

  “He said he’d practiced a lot.”

  “Hmmm. Doesn’t sound very hospitable to me,” said Gram, pulling into the parking lot at the hospital. “Let’s go see how Dave is.”

  It took a while to find Dr. Mercer. “Glad to see you were able to clean up.” She nodded approvingly at me. “I’ll check with the surgeon. Last I heard your friend was still in the operating room.”

  She returned in a few minutes. “He’s in recovery. You can’t see him now, but you can go to the family waiting room. Dr. White’s his surgeon. He’ll find you there.”

  The family waiting room was full. An anxious family from New York was waiting to hear about their nine-year-old son, who’d had a skateboard accident in town, and a woman in the corner was sobbing quietly. Gram and I stood, hoping Dr. White would find us soon.

  He did. “It looks as though Mr. Percy will be all right. He was lucky: The arrow missed the bone. But it was a penetrating injury; going to take a while to heal.” He paused. “An arrow can be more dangerous than a bullet. We had to cut it, and cloth from his pants, out. He’d bled a lot before he got to us, so we’re giving him blood. And, of course, he’s on antibiotics. We’re hoping the fact that he bled so much at first helps keep down the possibility of infection.” Dr. White paused. “He was lucky the arrow hit his leg. If it had punctured his abdomen or chest it would be a very different story.”

  I winced, imagining it. “What about his head?” I asked. “He hit his head when he fell.”

  “He has a concussion,” said Dr. White. “We think it’s minor, but we’re keeping a close watch on him. Right now he’s still in recovery, and he’s going to be pretty much out of it even after we move him to a private room. If you saw him now he wouldn’t remember you’d been here. Tomorrow would be a better time to visit.”

  “When can we see him in the morning?” asked Gram.

  “Visiting hours start at eight o’clock.”

  I wanted to stay, but Gram put her arm around me. “He’s going to be all right. Tomorrow is soon enough. You’ve had a rough day, Angel. You need sleep.” We walked slowly out of the hospital and toward Gram’s car.

  “Will you go to see him first thing tomorrow?” I asked.

  “We can both go,” she said, heading back to my house.

  “I can’t,” I admitted. “I have to go back to King’s Island. I have to convince Jesse to come to Haven Harbor for questioning.”

  “Questioning?” Gram asked.

  “Pete Lambert said Jesse might be accused of attempted murder.”

  Gram pulled into my driveway. “So, why are you involved? If Pete needs to question that man he should go out to King’s Island himself. Or get the coast guard or marine patrol to do it. No way you’re going back to talk to a man who shot his friend.”

  “I don’t think he’ll shoot me, Gram.”

  “You don’t think? That’s not good enough, Angel. You tell Pete Lambert you’re not going out there again.”

  “I promised I would.”

  “Then un-promise! You’re not a policeman. You could be hurt. Pete shouldn’t have asked you to do his job for him.”

  “He didn’t, really. I volunteered.”

  “He shouldn’t have accepted your offer.” Gram shook her head. “I know you’re tough, Angel. But going out there tomorrow is plain stupid. Not to speak of your not even having a boat!”

  “I could call Ob Winslow. Maybe he could take me.”

  “This is Ob’s busiest charter fishing season. Blues and stripers are running. Don’t you be bothering him,” Gram said.

  “All right. I give in. I’ll call Pete,” I told her. “I promise.” I was exhausted. Dave was going to be all right. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  She looked at me askance. “I know you, Angel. You need to take care of yourself. You can’t take on everyone’s jobs.”

  “I hear you, Gram. I don’t want to argue.”

  She patted me on the hand. “You go get some sleep. I’ll be by to pick you up tomorrow morning about eight. No shenanigans, you hear?”

  I’d gotten her message. But as I unlocked my door and headed inside, I still wasn’t sure what to do. How would Dave feel if he knew the police had questioned Jesse? How would Jesse react when he heard the police wanted to talk to him?

  And how would I feel if I broke my promise to Pete?

  Chapter 22

  “And what is Friendship but a name

  A charm that lulls to sleep

  A shade that Follows wealth or Fame,

  But leaves the wretch to weep.”

  —From a poem by Oliver Goldsmith, stitched on her sampler by Margaret C. Simmons of Washington City, age nine, dated January 7, 1828. Margaret’s father was a cooper; a maker of barrels.

  I’d hardly gotten inside when my phone rang. I almost didn’t look at it. I didn’t want to talk with anyone. But what if it was the hospital?

  “Where have you been all day?” Patrick said. “I’ve been worried about you!”

  “I left you a message,” I said. “I’ve been busy. And the roses are beautiful. Thank you.”

  “Glad they arrived. But Uncle Gerry was downtown this afternoon to have lunch with Jed Fitch. He said a woman covered with blood brought a man from King’s Island into town. That her name was Angie.”

  “Yes?” I said. Sounded like half the town had been near the wharf this afternoon. Gram had heard about me from Carole Fitch. Maybe she’d been with her husband and Gerry Bentley.

  “The woman sounded like you.”

  I hesitated. Most of the year-rounders knew me and knew The Solitary, even if they didn’t know his name. I couldn’t hide what had happened, even if I wanted to. But I hadn’t anticipated that everyone in town, even Patrick, would find out so quickly.

  “It was me.”

  Patrick’s voice lowered. “What happened? Are you hurt? Who was the man?”

  “I’m fine. Tired. It’s been a long day. I was out boating with Dave Percy, one of the Mainely Needlepointers, and there was an accident. The blood was his. I just came from the hospital. He’s had surgery, and the doctor says he’ll be all right.”


  “But what were you doing on King’s Island? That’s where Simon Lockhart’s crazy cousin lives. Uncle Gerry spent the day with Lockhart.”

  “Simon’s in town now? I thought he wasn’t due until tonight!”

  “He arrived earlier than we’d expected. Got in late last night. Uncle Gerry had a car meet him up at the airport. I only saw him for a few minutes. He’s staying at Aurora.”

  Of course. He’d told me Simon would be staying with Skye. “What’s he like?”

  “What does that matter? He’s a normal person. I’m not interested in him. What I want to know is what happened to you today. You’re sure you weren’t hurt?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Uncle Gerry said he’d heard a weird rumor: that the man in the boat had been shot with an arrow.”

  “He heard that?”

  “Angie, talk to me. What’s happening? What are you involved with?”

  I suspected none of Patrick’s Hollywood friends had days like mine. Would he understand? Not only was Haven Harbor not his world, but Gerry Bentley was his uncle. I liked Patrick. But I didn’t know him well enough to count on his support. “Patrick, I have to go. I’m exhausted. I need to sleep.”

  “Call me first thing tomorrow morning?”

  “Probably not. Gram and I’ll be going back to the hospital to check on Dave. And then I have a couple of errands to do.”

  “Errands? Nothing dangerous?”

  Dangerous? On King’s Island? “I can take care of myself, Patrick. Thank you again for the roses. They’re lovely. I’ll be in touch, I promise.” I ended the call.

  Should I have explained that I was trying to keep his uncle Gerry from buying King’s Island and taking away the sanctuary great cormorants—and Jesse—had found there?

  Someday he’d have to know.

  But not tonight.

  Tonight I was focused on Dave, and on Jesse.

  Despite that, I was glad Patrick had called. In all yesterday’s excitement, I’d forgotten Simon was now in town.