4th Down

by Kate Calloway

  4th Down

  Chapter One

  The hand around my ankle tugged me downward, into the murky depths of the lake. My lungs were close to bursting and my eyes strained in the black water as I struggled to see the shimmering light of day above. If only I could somehow break free. But the grip was fierce, and no matter how hard I kicked against the evil thing, it held tight. My ears had started to ring and I felt myself losing consciousness.

  "Cass, it's for you. Come on, wake up, Cass. You're having another dream."

  Maggie's voice drifted toward me like a thread of hope and I found myself gulping for air as I blinked awake. I looked at her blankly.

  "Same dream?" she asked. I nodded, shaking off the dread that had threatened to engulf me. This made the third time in a week that I'd dreamed of something dark and evil pulling me down, holding me under. Worst of all, it felt like a premonition. Maggie was holding the phone in one hand, rubbing my shoulder with the other. "You want me to tell them to call back?" She was propped up on one elbow, leaning over me, her breasts partially exposed above the sheet.

  "Whoizzit?" I managed. My heart still pounded erratically from the dream and my mouth wasn't working.

  "Didn't say. Sounds worried." Maggie's voice had a sexy morning quality to it — husky and deep. She held the receiver above my head, smiling seductively. "Yes or no?"

  She knew I hated being awakened from dreams, especially by the phone. While I debated, she pulled the sheet up across her breasts, leaving just the tip of one nipple exposed. I moaned and sat up to take the receiver.

  "Cassidy James?"

  "Speaking." Barely.

  "This is Allison Crane. I wonder if I might come out there right away. I've rented a boat. I just need directions."

  "Right now?" I glanced at the clock. It was not quite eight. On Sunday morning.

  "If it's too early, I can wait. The thing is, time is somewhat of the essence."

  "And this is regarding?" I let it hang.

  "I'm in need of your professional services. Martha Harper gave me your name. She says you're good. And honest. And discreet. That's what I need."

  Martha Harper was my best friend and not entirely objective.

  I said, "Well, since you're already here, I suppose we could at least talk." I gave her directions and handed the phone back to Maggie who was nuzzling my ear. "Another of Martha's referrals," I sank back into the pillow. "She's on her way."

  "I need to get going anyhow," Maggie said, pulling away.

  "You don't need to leave," I argued. "Stay. I'll make you Belgian waffles."

  "Cass, if I continue to let you cook for me, I'm going to have to buy an entire new wardrobe. Besides, I have more to do today than I can handle. Really."

  Reluctantly, I agreed. I watched as she slipped into form-fitting slacks and a silky, button-down blouse. I marveled at the way my heart still skipped when I looked at her. With black curly hair, olive skin and sea-green eyes, she was muscular but full of curves.

  "I don't suppose I could just meet with her in here," I said, stretching out across the bed.

  "Over my dead body." She tossed me my shirt and headed for the bathroom. With a sigh, I forced myself out of bed and got dressed.

  When I walked Maggie down to the dock, the August sky was speckled with white puffy clouds, but it looked like the recent rain was over. The water was glassy with hardly a ripple along the surface.

  "Do you have a client today?" Maggie was a therapist, and I knew she sometimes met with her clients on Sundays, but only if they were really desperate. Otherwise, their bruised and battered psyches would have to wait until Monday. Usually, she kept her weekends free for us.

  "No client. I have some errands to run, and I want to work in the garden. Plus I'm making something special."

  I looked at her quizzically, holding the bowline while she climbed into the little dinghy. She smiled mysteriously.

  "For next Sunday," she said. She yanked the pull-rope fiercely and the outboard coughed to life. Smiling, I watched her ease away from the dock. I'd been wondering if she'd remember. Next Sunday was our one-year anniversary.

  Of course, the year hadn't exactly been what one would call smooth sailing. No sooner had I met Maggie than my previous lover, Erica Trinidad, waltzed back into my life. No matter how much I tried to convince her that I was no longer interested in Erica, Maggie suspected otherwise. And then like a jerk, I actually admitted that I did in fact still have feelings for Erica. I not only admitted it, I acted on them. Jerk didn't begin to describe it. Luckily, all that was behind us.

  Despite these inauspicious beginnings, Maggie and I had begun to develop a deeply satisfying relationship. It wasn't just the mutual attraction; we really liked each other. We connected on an emotional level and also shared a somewhat perverse sense of humor. Most of all, we had fun. And she kept me on my toes. If there was one drawback, it was that Maggie tended to be jealous. But then, considering my behavior with Erica, who could blame her?

  I'd been racking my brains for weeks, trying to think of the perfect anniversary gift, but still hadn't been able to decide. Now, I had less than a week to figure it out.

  Panic and Gammon joined me on the dock and were busy sniffing the various hoof and paw prints in the mud along the bank. It looked like our most recent visitors had included a doe and its fawn, along with a large raccoon. The cats themselves looked like wild animals. Part Bengal, part Egyptian Mau, they were spotted instead of striped, with large pointed ears and gooseberry eyes. Gammon was on the portly side, while Panic was as lithe as a ferret. When an outboard rounded the island across from us, Panic bounded up the bank toward safety. Gammon just crouched down on the dock, tail twitching, watching me expectantly.

  "It's just a client," I told her. "Nothing to get excited about."

  But as the little rental boat scooted across the water toward my dock, I was feeling a little on-edge myself. Probably just that damned dream I kept having, I thought, watching the boat approach. She was coming in straight enough, but a bit too fast for a novice. I waved, letting her know she had the right dock and she waved back. Maybe she knows her way around boats, I thought. Nearing the dock, she suddenly turned the handle the wrong way and goosed the motor. The nose of the aluminum boat rammed the dock and she flew forward, landing in the middle of the boat on all fours. I leaped in, cut the motor and grabbed onto the side of the dock to steady us. Slowly, she got up, her face crimson.

  "You okay?" I asked.

  She nodded, looking mortified. "Sorry. I've never actually driven one of these before. I can handle a sailboat. I thought this would be easy. I hope I didn't damage your dock."

  "No problem." I hopped out and secured the boat to a metal cleat. Somewhat awkwardly, she scrambled out behind me.

  "Allison Crane," she said, extending a pale, lightly freckled hand.

  I was surprised at the strength of her grip, given her delicate features and I studied her more closely. Her short hair was a blend of red and gold, tossed in careless waves around her face. Her eyes were almost turquoise, the color of the Caribbean. Her skin was milky and smooth, with a splash of freckles across her nose that made her seem vulnerable. When she smiled, two tiny dimples appeared on her cheeks. Allison Crane, I decided, was an attractive woman.

  "Come on up. I'll put on some coffee." I led her up the walkway to my house, wishing I had taken the time to make myself more presentable. I was wearing jeans and an old sweatshirt, and though I'd run a comb through my short blond hair and brushed my teeth, I wasn't exactly dressed for company. But then, she hadn't given me a lot of warning. Even so, I found myself checking my reflection in the entry-way, self-consciously smoothing my hair.

  Chapter Two

  "Someone's trying to kill me," she stated, sipping her coff
ee. Her tone was calm and matter-of-fact.

  "How?" I'd started to ask her how she knew, but thought better of it. She didn't seem like the kind of person who'd imagine these things.

  "In the last three weeks there have been three separate attempts on my life. The first one happened in my office, at Women On Top."

  "You work with Women On Top? The group that sponsors the dances?"

  She laughed. "We do a lot more than that. The dances, golf tournaments and concerts are primarily fund-raisers for our real work which is to help lesbians succeed in the business world. We provide scholarships, sponsor networking seminars, and host conferences. We help small businesses secure start-up loans and apply for grants. Our headquarters are in Portland, but we have chapters in cities across the country." Her face was flushed with pride and she smiled apologetically. "Forgive me. I get passionate about this. I'm the president."

  I was momentarily taken back. "Is that a paid position?"

  "Well, we're basically volunteers, though the amount of time the staff puts in certainly warrants a regular salary. A year ago we voted to pay the officers a nominal fee, though it doesn't amount to much. It's become a sore point with some of us. But if we use our funds to pay ourselves, it takes money away from our goals." She shrugged.

  "What do you do for a living, then?"

  "I'm an M.D. I work at a women's clinic in Portland." If she was trying to impress me with her credentials, she was succeeding. But she seemed oblivious to this fact.

  "So, you think someone tried to kill you at Women On Top?"

  She nodded. "You see, I'm allergic to bee stings," she said, as if this explained everything. I waited, hoping I'd catch on. "About three weeks ago, I came into the office around six, which I often do on Saturday mornings, before anyone else is there. I like to make the coffee, get things organized for the day, you know. Once the others arrive, it tends to get chaotic." She shrugged. "Anyway, I noticed right away that the door to my office was closed, which was unusual, but I didn't give it any real thought. I just turned the knob and pushed the door open. That's when I heard them. There must've been a thousand bees inside. They buzzed around like they were really agitated. I was almost through the door when I realized what I was hearing. You know how little time it takes to open a door and walk into a room?" Her aqua eyes widened, willing me to imagine her predicament. "Another step or two and I'd have been covered with them. As it was, I jumped back and slammed the door before I got stung."

  "Did you call the police?"

  "Yes. Immediately. I figured it was some kind of hate crime. You know, Homophobes Against Lesbos, or some damned thing. We receive quite a bit of hate mail. The officer who came out wasn't much help. I don't think he took the whole thing very seriously. It never occurred to me that the attack was personal. Until the next one. That's when I really started to get scared."

  "Wait. How did they get the bees inside?" I asked, tasting my coffee for the first time.

  "The police said that someone must've left a window open. We're on the ground floor so all they had to do was toss in the bee box from the outside and close the window. The last person to leave always sets the alarm, so it had to be done while people were still working inside Friday night."

  "Can just anybody enter your office? You said your door was closed, and that you usually leave it open."

  "I was there Friday evening until about seven. So were half a dozen others. I left my door open as usual when I left. I asked around later, and no one remembers anyone else going in there after I left. So maybe someone who has a key to our building came in later. That's why I think it's someone from Women On Top. In fact, I know it is. I just don't know who."

  "You think someone in your own organization is trying to kill you?"

  Her blue-green eyes were suddenly wet and shiny. She nodded, biting her lip. "I found a piece of paper on my desk the next day. There were just two words typed in the center—First Down. I didn't have a clue what it meant and it didn't really click until the second attempt. That's when I realized it was someone I knew." She paused and took a sip of coffee. "I live on a steep hill and my driveway is quite long. At the bottom of the drive, there's an intersection to a major thoroughfare and the cars whiz by at fifty or sixty miles an hour. Usually, I just coast down the drive, hit the brakes and wait for a clearing. Even so, I usually have to gun it. Luckily the Porsche accelerates quickly. I wouldn't want to pull out into that traffic in a VW."

  I chuckled.

  "Anyway, last Friday I got a call that there was an emergency at the hospital. It was just after five, the rush hour. I jumped in the car and sped a little faster than usual down the driveway. When I hit the brakes at the bottom, nothing happened. Someone had cut my brake lines. I just kept on rolling straight across four lanes of traffic. That I'm still alive is a miracle. Cars were swerving all over the place but not one of them so much as dented a fender. When I finally came to a stop, I did something I haven't done in years."

  I arched my eyebrows and she smiled self-consciously.

  "I prayed," she said. She ran her fingers through her red-gold curls and watched my reaction.

  "What did the police say? Are you positive that your brakes were actually cut?"

  "I had the car towed to my mechanic. He's the one who told me what had been done. The police said they would look into it. I told them about the bee incident and they took down the information but I still don't think they were all that concerned. They treated it more like a prank than a serious attempt on my life."

  "Anybody in your group know a lot about cars?" I asked. Personally, I wasn't sure I'd be able to recognize a brake line if I saw one.

  Allison nodded. "That's the first thing I thought of. Reeva Dunsmoore's a mechanic. And she, more than anyone, has reason to want me out of the picture. She's my vice-president and doesn't hesitate to let people know she'd do things differently if she were in my position. She's one of the people who think we should be getting paid more. She's also big on football."

  I raised a brow.

  "The morning after my brakes were cut I found another note on my desk with the words Second Down typed on the front. Believe me, the first person I thought of was Reeva. But now, I don't think it's her — not because I totally trust her, but because whoever made the third attempt had to be someone who's been in my home, who knows my daily routine. Reeva and I have never been that close. I don't think it could've been her."

  Panic and Gammon had come back into the house and were busy sniffing Allison's shoes. Apparently Gammon found them to her liking because uninvited, she leaped onto Allison's lap and began kneading her thighs.

  "My God, what do you feed this cat? She must weigh twenty pounds!" she said as she started to stroke her silky fur.

  "It's just her metabolism. She doesn't eat any more than her sister. Luck of the draw, I guess." I got up and poured us more coffee. "What was this third attempt and what makes you think it was by someone who knows your routine?"

  "I guess I'm a creature of habit," she said, shifting Gammon on her lap. "Every morning I have the same thing for breakfast — a bowl of cereal and a glass of orange juice. Not very exciting, but it's quick and easy. It's not something I've ever discussed with anyone, but anyone who's spent the night more than once would probably have noticed.

  "On Wednesday morning I got a call from the hospital before I got a chance to eat my cereal. Unlike the Friday before, this call really was from the hospital. I'd found out that whoever called the night my brakes were cut just pretended to be from the nurse's station, so I was being cautious. The emergency this time was legitimate so I rushed out without even taking time to put my cereal bowl in the fridge. If I had, Susan B. Anthony might still be alive today."

  "I beg your pardon?" Her eyes had filled up with tears and I thought briefly that this one might be a real nut case.

  She smiled sadly. "My blue-point Siamese, Susan B. Anthony. I'd had her almost twelve years. The poor thing jumped up on the table and helped herself
to the milk in my bowl. I found her on the living room floor." The tears that had welled up now trickled down her cheeks and I felt a lump in my throat. It took her several moments to compose herself, and when she finally spoke, her voice was thick with emotion. "I'm sorry. You have no idea how much I loved that old cat. And I know she suffered. I'm not just scared anymore, I'm furious." Indeed her cheeks had taken on a high color and her eyes shone with little green specks of light.

  "You think someone broke into your house and poisoned your milk, knowing that you'd have it with your cereal? And that's why you think it must be someone who knows your habits?"

  She nodded, biting her lip. Gammon, always good at sensing grief, burrowed her head into Allison's chest and began purring loudly. Allison handed me a piece of plain typing paper with the words Third Down printed in the center. The print was laser-quality and could've been generated from any standard computer. Which was too bad, I thought. A typewriter would have been easier to trace.

  "I took the milk to the police and they said they'd run tests on it but I was worried that things were happening too fast. I might be dead by the time they got around to looking into it. I'd met Martha Harper during a fundraiser a few years ago and we've run into each other a few times since. She's the only cop I really know, so I called her, even though she's all the way out here in Kings Harbor. I knew she couldn't do much good from here while I'm in Portland, but I didn't know where else to turn."

  "And she suggested me," I said.

  Allison nodded. "She said you were her best friend, that she'd known you since college and that you were someone to trust."

  "I'm not sure I'd be much help —"

  She cut me off. "But I've got a plan! Please don't say no until you've heard me out. I've thought it through and I know it could work. Will you at least listen?"

  I nodded, my curiosity getting the better of me.

  "Next week, everyone on my staff will be going on a week-long retreat, along with about a hundred other lesbians. Maybe you've heard about it? It's this big corporate retreat outside of Portland called Eagle's Nest, and once a year we rent the place. A lot of people look at it as a vacation, but it's also a place for networking and tapping mutual resources. We sponsor workshops and team building activities throughout the week. Not that it's all work and no play. You should see the waiting list to get in. Anyway, I think it's a logical assumption that whoever is trying to kill me will try again there." She paused and added wryly, "They're running out of downs. Or I am."