Just Intuition

by Fisk, Makenzi

  In this version, Erin played the part of Cary Grant as Mortimer Brewster, the recently married newspaperman who must now go home and deliver the news to his sweet old aunts. When Erin gets there, she discovers that they're both insane and have been murdering men. She runs around in the slapstick comedy trying to keep her new bride while preventing her aunts from murdering anyone else. She snatches away a glass of poisoned wine from Gunther Schmidt, whom the aunts were attempting to murder, and saves his life.

  By the time Erin, as Cary Grant, happily exclaimed 'I'm the son of a sea-cook', Allie jolted upright on the sofa. The onscreen credits were rolling. She had missed the entire second half of the movie. She puzzled over the fact that Erin had been a continuous thread in her dream and that Gunther had been saved. That certainly fulfilled the 'tell me everything weird' criteria. She must text her.

  Allie: You found him. He's sick.

  Erin: Yes. Any idea where the kid is?

  Allie: Need to tell you about this movie.

  Erin: ? random, but I did ask you to tell me everything…

  Allie: B&W Cary Grant movie. Two dotty old ladies killing lonely men, crazy guy blowing bugle, weirdo Dr Einstein, and Cary Grant trying to fix it all.

  Erin: Are you drinking or something? LOL

  Allie: Not funny.

  Erin: Sorry.

  Allie: Don't know what it means. Hope you can figure it out. Now go find the girl.

  Allie put down her phone and knitted her brows together. It did not seem at all odd that the knowledge of Gunther being sick had come to her while she typed the words. Relaxing during the movie had made it easier for the thoughts to flow, and there was no headache or nausea with the dream. It seemed that the more she allowed herself to consider the possibility that they were only bits of information, the easier it became. Still, it was confusing, with seemingly random thoughts coming in fits and spurts. She was uncomfortable about omitting the part where Erin had played Cary Grant, with Allie as her new bride in the strange dream movie. That was too outlandish.

  * * *

  Striker rode back to police headquarters with Erin. In the trunk, gently cradled in a cardboard box, were a few items from Lily's room, most of the trash from the hidey hole, and the bottle she'd seized from the shed. Zimmerman carried an envelope containing the damning bank statements and other papers he'd seized. Of all the items they'd taken into evidence today, she was most interested in the mysterious bottle, but then she'd sometimes been accused of having an overactive imagination. It was probably nothing. Old cleaning supplies finally disposed of or something? She would turn it all over to Forensics as soon as she could.

  "Do you like old movies?" Erin feigned innocuous conversation.

  "Not enough shooting and killing," Striker grunted. Like her, he was tired and in need of a shower. "I like action films." He watched the road for a moment and then reciprocated by attempting to continue the conversation. "But my aunt has seen every movie ever made since the beginning of time."

  Erin perked up and eyed him with more interest.

  "You like old movies too." He sighed as if this was somehow a character flaw, and she was disappointing him on some level.

  "Yeah, I really do," she lied. "I can't remember the name of one of my favorites. It's about two crazy old ladies who murder guys and there is a crazy guy who blows a bugle and a nephew—"

  "Aw, that one's easy," he interrupted. "I watched it with my aunt when I stayed with her on summer holidays as a kid. She absolutely loved that movie, but it made me nervous. I was afraid to drink any juice for the rest of my visit!"

  "Why?"

  "I didn't want to die! The movie was called Arsenic and Old Lace." He laughed at the memory. "The crazy old ladies kept killing men with poisoned wine!"

  A lightning bolt connected with Erin's brain. Arsenic! Allie's cryptic texts unraveled themselves into one coherent message. Gunther Schmidt had been poisoned.

  At the station, she hastily scribbled a note for Kathy Banks and stuffed it into the evidence locker beside the items she'd seized from Gunther's shed. She'd been careful to seal the top of the bottle to preserve whatever droplets might be left. She had barely finished when Zimmerman thundered down the hall toward her, his size 14 boots bearing down like army tanks.

  "Those bastards won't authorize overtime for this, but I'm going to search for the girl on my own," he said breathlessly. "Striker is coming too. He's changing into his civvies and calling around to borrow a boat right now. No luck so far, but someone will lend us one."

  "Does a missing kid not matter to the brass?" Indignation, like fire in her gut, burned toward the stubbornly tightfisted police administration.

  "That's the thing," Zimmerman said. "Old man Gunther, the prime suspect in Gina's arson and attempted murder is in the hospital, under police watch. They say the kid is safe and sound with one of our fine officers and she can't possibly be in danger! They want us to wait until they can speak to Derek and clear it up, or at least until tomorrow."

  "Are you serious?" Erin's indignation ratcheted up another notch. "They can't trust Derek! He poisoned Gunther! The girl is at risk every moment she is with him!"

  "Poison? I thought he drank himself into a coma. Did the paramedics say he was poisoned?"

  "Well, it's pretty obvious." Erin back pedaled, stalling for time to think. She recovered and began to count points off on her fingers. "First, Gunther is unconscious, pretty much in a coma. Second, he had been hiding out for days but there were not enough beer cans down there to drink anyone but a six-year-old into a coma. He hadn't been into town to buy more because his truck hadn't moved." Puzzle pieces whizzed into place in Erin's mind, pieces unconnected before this moment.

  "Third, we saw the beer cans in the fridge the last time we were there, but the bottle was different. Where did that come from? What was in it? Fourth, there are plenty of chemicals around, and taxidermy chemicals, especially the old ones like the empty bottle I seized, often had toxic substances in it. Even poisons like arsenic." She had Zimmerman's rapt attention and he leaned forward, waiting for her to finish. She raised the pinky finger on her right hand. "Fifth is that Gunther had garlic breath."

  "Are you yanking my chain?" Zimmerman had been nodding during this tirade but his expression turned to utter disbelief. Like a child who has begun to suspect that the Easter Bunny might be a fabrication, Zimmerman drew back. "You think he had, what, poison pizza?"

  "No," Erin clarified patiently. "Arsenic can smell like garlic on a victim's breath. I smelled it and the paramedics smelled it."

  "Arsenic," Zimmerman repeated quietly. He gave her a frown that she mistook for suspicion.

  "I watch a lot of documentaries," she explained awkwardly, leaving out the part about Allie's text tip. "I like true crime stuff." He didn't look at all mollified. "Think about it. It would explain a lot of things. Like Mr. Schmidt's sudden mental and physical decline. His alarming appearance and personality change. People thought he was destroying his liver with alcohol or he had cancer or something."

  "Okay then, arsenic." He reluctantly repeated the name of the poison again, nodding slightly as if trying to wrap his head around the idea. "Since this is your theory, I want you to be the one to call the hospital and give them a heads up. It will save a lot of diagnostic time and maybe Gunther's life if you're right." He leveled his gaze at her. "But it's your ass if you're wrong. Now, excuse me, but Striker and I have a girl to find." He made as if to move around her but Erin blocked him.

  "Count me in too. I don't give a crap about overtime either. You drive and I'll call the hospital on the way to my parents' place. We'll borrow their boat."

  Before Erin called the hospital, she texted her girlfriend and shielded the screen from Striker's prying eyes in the cramped back seat of Zimmerman's Chevy Crew Cab.

  Erin: Ur info was right. Now going to find girl. Don't wait up. Will text when back in cell range.

  Then she phoned the hospital and wheedled a skeptical nurse into connectin
g her with the physician in charge.

  "This is Doctor Holloway." A gravelly male voice came on the line and Erin hoped he would take her seriously. He listened quietly while she carefully explained her theory until she thought she'd lost the signal. Finally he responded, but he was not speaking to her. The background noise changed subtly as if he walked down a hallway, and she understood that he was on a cordless phone.

  "Would you wash that patient's hands for me," he ordered.

  "You want me to—?" Erin was confused.

  "Sorry, Officer. I was speaking to the nurse." She shut her mouth and listened. The minutes ticked by and there was a great deal of rustling noise, or was that static? She grew anxious that they would be out of cellular range before the doctor spoke to her again. "Mee's lines," he finally said.

  Erin shook her head. She had no idea what he was talking about, or even if he was talking to her.

  "I said, he has Mee's lines, Officer Ericsson." The doctor's voice boomed through the earpiece.

  Erin shrugged.

  He answered as if he'd seen the gesture. "Horizontal banding of the fingernails is an indicator of poisoning."

  She flashed back to the hidey hole where she had dismissed Gunther's strangely discolored fingernails as being dirty.

  "You might be on to something," Doctor Holloway said. "The preliminary toxicology report noted lactic acidosis but that also appears in a number of other conditions, such as alcohol poisoning, which was the initial diagnosis. Since he's been cleaned up, I'm noting hyperkeratosis and hyperpigmentosis, specifically on the soles of his hands and feet. Now that we have a specific toxin to look for, I will review the blood cell counts and serum electrolytes. If I see evidence of hemolysis, we'll screen him for possible blood transfusion." Erin rapidly thumped her foot on the floor. Why didn't he give her the short and sweet layman's version like Michelle had earlier?

  The doctor's voice rose and his postulation gathered steam. This was likely the most unique case he would have all year. "I'll have blood and urine samples sent for analysis, but my preliminary hypothesis based on the Mee's Lines and anecdotal reports of breath odor, is strongly indicative of repetitive nonlethal exposure culminating in a final toxic dose. I'll request an EMG but that might have to wait until he can be transported to a larger facility with more advanced neurological investigation technology." Erin, unfamiliar with much of the medical terminology, zoned out when he recited something about micrograms per liter. It sounded like he was referencing a textbook. She said a few apologetically placating words to end the conversation and get the doctor off the phone. Assured that Gunther Schmidt was in expert hands, she hoped he would be in good enough shape to answer a few questions when she returned.

  She tucked the phone into her shoulder bag and left it in her father's garage when they arrived. Electronics were useless in the bush with little to no service. Her off duty pistol would be safe there too, locked away from tiny curious hands.

  It took only fifteen minutes for Erin's mom to pack food for all three of them, and get the fishing boat ready down by the dock. The 15 horsepower Mercury motor that Erin and her dad had repaired was securely bolted to the stern. Erin's dad tossed two lifejackets onboard for her fellow officers already assuming their positions, Zimmerman on lookout up front and the more experienced Striker manning the stern. He followed the lifejackets with a couple of pairs of rain gear, two paddles and a bailing can. Zimmerman looked at the rain gear and then at the sky, which had begun to darken considerably.

  "Looks like maybe a little rain this evening," Erin's dad told him.

  "I hope this is not a bad omen, Mr. Ericsson." Zimmerman laughed as he caught the bailing can but his Adam's apple nervously tightened at his throat.

  "Nah, she's fine," Erin's dad reassured him. "Leaks a bit sometimes but nothing serious." Zimmerman pulled on his lifejacket and fastened it all the way to the top. Striker was less concerned, nonchalantly stowing gear and familiarizing himself with the vessel. Unlike many others raised in this area, Zimmerman had little exposure to boating and would have to rely on his partner.

  Mrs. Ericsson handed over two large thermal bags and both men politely bobbed their heads in unison. They knew that each bag was packed to the brim with goodies and Erin remembered the ample lunches her mom had packed her for school. Her friends had teased her, dubbing them truck driver lunches, but they always eagerly circled her like sharks to help devour every last bit. Her mom must have suspected that she was feeding half of Erin's elementary class.

  "We just fixed the motor. Take care of her, boys." Erin's dad untied the fourteen-foot aluminum fishing boat from the dock and gave it a solid push toward the middle of the river channel.

  Striker squeezed the primer bulb on the fuel line a couple of times and pulled out the choke knob before he gave a quick yank on the starter rope. The outboard motor hacked out a cloud of blue smoke. Undeterred, he shoved the choke in, pulled it out, and tried again. This time the motor coughed raggedly, and after a minor adjustment, settled into a smooth idle. He adjusted the throttle and switched to reverse until the bow swept around to point downriver. He cranked it into forward and they puttered off without ceremony. Zimmerman gripped the edge of his seat with one hand and held the other up in a tense salute like a soldier going off to the battlefield. Nestled alongside him was the .303 hunting rifle Erin's dad had insisted he borrow. Just in case.

  Before they were out of sight, Erin loaded her gear into the lightweight aluminum canoe. They'd all made the decision during the drive that the men would take the motorboat and search the main channel all the way out to the big lake. They could cover more territory and would have room for passengers if they were successful. Confident paddling solo in a canoe since she was eight, Erin had agreed to serve more of a reconnaissance role. With no propeller to worry about, she could poke around all the narrow weed-choked tributaries off the main river. The lightweight craft could also be easily portaged across otherwise inaccessible terrain between waterways.

  Stowed at the bow, and serving as counterweight, was Erin's own truck driver lunch and her dad's Mossfield 12 gauge. Before she pushed the canoe off, Erin's mom nervously tucked in an extra paddle and a set of bright yellow rain gear, wrapped around a box of shotgun shells. Her worry lines said she hoped it didn't come to that. Erin raised a hand in a silent wave and turned the bow downstream. She set off with long powerful paddle strokes.

  There were almost four hours of daylight left before nightfall when they would all meet back here. She was confident she could easily make it to Blue Water Campground, and if she had calculated her distance correctly, she would arrive at the base of the big lake before the rangers closed up for the night. She could ride back with them and return for the canoe later.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Paddle in. Pull back. Paddle out. I watch the droplets of water catch the sunlight when they run off the end of the blade. I've spent a lot of time in small boats but this might be the longest stretch of hard paddling I've ever done. Sweat drips off my nose and right now I am so thirsty I can't work up enough saliva to spit even if I wanted to. Seriously, I could use a beer, but I gave the old bastard the last one I stole. I've always believed that stolen beer tastes better. I wonder if he agreed. I snicker, imagining his stinking corpse rotting in the hole in the ground. He should have known better than to try to tell me what to do. Ten years from now, when they tear down that shed, he'll finally see daylight.

  I scoop a handful of water but most of it drains between my fingers before it ever reaches my mouth. It's been hours since my feet have touched dry land and, besides my thirst, the one overwhelming thought in my mind is that I need to pee.

  I see the Minion dip a paddle in and then turn it upright like a friggin' flag to guzzle water running down the blade. How did such a stupid idiot figure that out when it hadn't occurred to me? Minion is proving to be useful. I make my face curve into what I hope is a pleasant smile and copy the maneuver. The water running into my mouth is like nect
ar of the gods. Better than beer. But now I really gotta pee.

  There's a small clearing and I point it out. We turn and the bow grinds through the weeds. I push hard on the mucky river bottom until the keel rasps on the sandy shoreline. I poke my paddle one last time at a pair of circling water bugs before I toss it into the middle of the boat and step over the side. I don't give a crap if water fills my shoes. This panther's gotta pee so bad I can almost taste it.

  I take my pack with me and head off on my own into the brush to relieve myself on a scrabbly plant with white berries. Doll's Eyes? That's what they are: Poisonous, like me. I make sure I aim for the berries and finish with a sigh. When I'm done, I find a flat rock down by the shore and stretch out for a rest. I search around in my pack and pull out a granola bar, ripping the package off in my haste to eat it. The Cheetos are long gone and so are the things I took from the fridge. I tossed the empty bags overboard an hour ago.

  Minion is splashing around by the canoe, probably looking for me, but I'm not moving from this spot until I goddamn well feel like it. Dragonflies buzz me like crop dusters and I half-heartedly swat at them. The sun slips behind a cloud and in the shadow a cooling breeze sweeps over me. About time. I don't know how much more of this heat I can stand. I breathe deep and want to purr. Do panthers purr? This one does when it smells freedom.

  * * *

  Allie emptied her computer case on the queen size quilt that Erin's mom had made for them when they'd moved into the house. Shaking it upside down, she dumped out every last ballpoint pen and pocket pack of Kleenex. There would be no need for any of that today. She changed into a T-shirt and a pair of urban hiking shorts, the ones she loved to wear when she walked Fiona. On her feet were her favorite leather walking shoes, and she'd tied her hair into its usual tight ponytail.