Murder at Spirit Falls

by Barbara Deese

  Brenda took the glass and, with a benign smile, said, “I hope Grace got hold of you to tell you I was coming.” She took a ladylike sip.

  Robin was trying to piece it together: Grace’s disjointed words, this woman showing up. Something was off about the whole thing. “But I thought you came here by mis—” She quit when she saw the almost imperceptible shift of Brenda’s eyes, but it was too late.

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you,” Brenda said. She handed the mostly full glass to Robin. “Did Grace have anything else to say?”

  Glancing past her through the screen door, Robin looked in vain for Cate and Grover. Her eyes stopped on the lone car in the parking area. Her own. “Where’s your car?”

  It all happened so quickly. Brenda’s hand shot out, snatched the cast iron frying pan and swung it, two-fisted, like a baseball bat, catching Robin a glancing blow to the temple.

  Pain blinded her and she had the odd sensation her head was filled with carbonated liquid under pressure. Robin staggered, clawing at the refrigerator door for support before slumping to the floor. The kitchen table shrank to a pinpoint of light before it vanished completely.

  She was certain she’d regained consciousness, had opened her eyes wide, yet the light did not return. Her eyes stung, her head throbbed and she considered that the metallic taste in her mouth was probably blood. She blinked, blinked again, but nothing dispelled the oppressive darkness. How long had she been out? Her fingers tingled painfully.

  Don’t make a noise now. In her head, the voice was her father’s. The darkness, her old nemesis … it was happening all over again. And hot! So damned hot!

  She tried to stretch her hands to the sides to grope in the darkness, only to discover her wrists were bound in front of her. As were her ankles. She sucked in an audible breath, already beginning to hyperventilate. Soon she was taking huge gulps of air that held, she realized with horror, the sickening and unmistakable smell of kerosene and burning cloth.

  Moaning, she allowed herself to fall to one side and roll. One rotation took her to a wall. Stretching her bound and throbbing arms in a limited arc, she began to probe the surface of her dark prison. Something bumped against her head. She stifled a scream. Like a blind person knowing a familiar face by feel, she recognized her spare camera bag. Which meant she was in the storage room at the back of her cabin.

  Don’t make a sound. I’ll let you out just as soon as they leave.

  Gasping, she flipped over in the direction she believed was her only exit, felt in the impenetrable dark for the door, and slammed her shoulder against it. It didn’t budge. Dread settled on her, immobilizing her. “Help,” she sobbed so quietly no one but the darkness could hear. “Oh, God, help.”

  “See?” George pointed again.

  Then Cate saw it—a small vulpine nose poking out from under the rock ledge. Her breath caught. A second nose and furry face appeared. Little yips, happy sounds came from the den. Cate was transfixed. I could just hug George for bringing me here, she thought, all caution dispelled.

  “Cute little buggers,” he murmured.

  She didn’t know how long they stood there. If it weren’t for the shade and a slight breeze, the heat would have been suffocating. Cate passed a hand over her upper lip and savored the moment—the sight of two kits safe in their den, the rushing of the waterfall, the sunlight glinting off the water below, the smell of smoke … Why, she wondered idly, would Robin make a fire on a day like this?

  She heard him long before Grover bounded toward them, barking insanely.

  “Guess I’ve got a door to repair,” George said glumly.

  But Cate was alarmed by more than a torn screen. “What is it, Grove?” He danced wildly, his deep bark turning to a growl. Cate looked back at the cabin. “Fire!” she yelled to George.

  “Thank God for air conditioning,” Sheriff Harley said as pulled his tie to one side, then the other, in an attempt to loosen the sweaty knot.

  Deputy Brill jumped up at the sound of his voice in the outer office. When his face came into view, she announced, “Say, 911 Dispatch had a weird one.”

  Harley tossed his keys on the desk. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, a cell phone call. Not in range, though. All they could hear was a woman’s voice. They couldn’t trace the location of the phone, but it’s a Minneapolis number—name of Fred Samuels.”

  “Huh!” Harley grunted.

  Brill said, “The only word they heard was ‘hurry.’”

  Harley braced himself, knuckles on the desk, brows furrowed in thought. He stood when he saw Brill’s mocking eyes on him. Lowland gorilla, that’s what she’d said he looked like every time he bent over his desk in that particular posture. His eyes drifted from the phone to the file cabinet to the clock as he conjectured the call’s significance. It had the smell of something important.

  The telephone’s shrill ring got their attention.

  Brill snatched it. “Okay … okay … got it.” She hung up. “The mystery woman called back. Still out of range, but they picked up something about Spirit Falls before they lost her completely.”

  Brenda’s heart thrummed in her chest. The stench of kerosene clung to her, making her gag as she stumbled down the hallway, propelled by adrenaline alone. She had sloshed so much near the kitchen that the can was empty long before she reached the room where she’d left that stupid woman. Back in the kitchen, she stood as far from the stove as she could and still flip on a burner. The wooden spoon took forever to ignite, but when it did, she set it on top of the folded paper bags on the table and they burst into flame.

  Turning toward the front door, she dug in her pants pocket for her car keys. Nothing there but the silver button that had started this whole fiasco. And then it came back to her—the sound of something metallic hitting the floor. Had her keys fallen when she’d tied up the unconscious woman? No, not then.

  She closed her eyes, calming herself to remember: Tying the woman’s hands with a bathrobe sash, wrapping her ankles with the cord of a curling iron, the curling iron almost tripping her as she dragged the dead weight into the closet, feet first. Closing the door, pushing it hard because the body had fallen or rolled against it, then, just to make sure, hauling that enormous trunk in front of it.

  Yes, the keys must have fallen then. If she didn’t find them soon, her means of escape would be engulfed in flames. The hallway was already filling with black smoke.

  What was that infernal wailing? “Shut up!” Brenda screamed in the direction of the blocked storage room. She turned to see flames behind her, licking along the floor between her and the front door. Smoke rolled along the hallway ceiling toward her.

  Then she saw them, just a few feet ahead of her on the linoleum running the length of the hall. She dove for her keys, snatched them up, and crawled to the screen door at the side of the cabin.

  She raced toward the driveway. The screaming from the storage room sounded louder than ever, unless it was—“No!” Brenda rasped. The sound wasn’t human after all. Sirens—closer … on the driveway now, she realized, with a clenching feeling in her chest. “No, no, no!”

  No, better not risk a return to her car, hidden behind a stand of pine trees near that hillbilly trailer. What if the police had already found it? She looked around wildly, and saw that the cabin roof was sending sparks into nearby trees.

  No other choice. She’d have to head to the water. With a quick glance to the driveway, she bolted around the corner of the cabin and toward the back of the property. The sirens were screaming inside her ears, along with the roaring of the fire.

  She was scarcely able to make out a narrow path that, if there was a merciful God, would take her to safety. She started down it, going only a few steps when she tripped over a tree root and went sprawling. Pine needles and sand gave way, propelling her forward. When she stopped sliding, she was looking down, a long way down, at a waterfall. She struggled to her feet, gasping to regain control.

  Across the creek, high on the other
bank, she saw the strangest apparition, a woman in white, dark hair flowing behind her as she seemed to be running down a path parallel to her own. Her mouth was open as if she was screaming, but Brenda heard only the rush of water, the roar of the cabin going up in flames. Bouncing around behind and then beside the dark-haired woman was a shaggy pony. Brenda could not believe her eyes. She blinked to clear the hallucination. The pony threw back its shaggy head as if baying at the moon.

  Brenda could hear herself blubbering—praying for mercy, for deliverance. She had to keep moving. Tearing her eyes away from the bizarre apparition, she saw that just ahead a crude handrail sloped downwards. She ran toward it, losing her footing once more. Her right shoe tumbled down the embankment. Lying on her side, she kicked off her remaining shoe, looked over her shoulder and directly into the beet-red face of a man who was rushing at her, arms waving wildly. He wore a tan uniform and his mouth moved as if he was calling out to her.

  Cate Running Wolf had almost reached the water’s edge when Grover, in his exuberance, knocked her down. Her tailbone sent electric shocks down her legs. The dog circled back, tugging at her arm until he had her upright again. “Go, Grover! Swim!” She tried to propel him into the creek where it eddied below the waterfall, but he barked and sat on the sandbank next to her.

  “Oh, Lord!” she said, whether as a prayer or a curse, she didn’t stop to consider. Together, they waded in. The water was icy and the current strong. She felt her tennis shoes lose their purchase on the algae-covered rocks, felt her elbow scrape over something sharp as she rolled, sank, and then bobbed to the surface, coughing convulsively. Helplessly, she watched the shoreline slide past. Grover, now paddling furiously just downstream of her, bumped his great weight against her, nudging her, keeping her head above water. His shoulders moved powerfully through the water, yet despite his strength and her untidy flailing, Cate and her faithful companion were swept around a bend in the creek. The falls disappeared from view.

  In that split second, Sheriff Harley realized with a start that the woman wasn’t Robin Bentley after all. Her face was covered in dark smudges, her hair plastered across her forehead, covering her eyes. Her clothing was torn and she was obviously terrified.

  “Where’s Mrs. Bentley?” he yelled. “Where’s Robin?”

  Instead of answering, she extended her arms overhead to grasp the thin railing. As soon as she’d hauled herself up, she went headlong down the uneven steps that ended just below the falls.

  Bolting after her, Sheriff Harley was unable to prevent what happened next. He watched helplessly as she again stumbled. It was almost comical the way her feet slewed sideways and in an attempt to catch herself, she spun her arms like propellers, overcorrected, and pitched violently in the other direction. Her mouth opened in an exaggerated O. Her eyes rolled to take in what was her inevitable direction of contact with the handrail. Despite her petite size, despite hour after grueling hour at the gym, her weight, combined with momentum, was enough to bow the wood with a soft cracking sound.

  The entire section of railing gave way, then, and she was catapulted over the cliff.

  Taking caution not to follow her path, Harley held onto a tree so he could look over the edge. About twenty feet below lay the motionless body on a rocky protuberance just above the waterfall.

  Inside the storage room, Robin threw her weight against the door until she was sure she’d broken bones, but it did not budge. When sweat rolled into her eyes, she closed them. She had to get rid of the cloth binding her wrists. Tearing at them with her teeth accomplished little, but did give her time to mentally catalogue the contents of the closet and come up with a better solution. She felt around until she recognized the broken end table, found the protruding nails and scraped her bindings over them until the cloth gave way. Hands freed, she rolled even deeper into the small room, feeling around for something else—anything—that would deliver her. Her hand struck something hard, and vaguely familiar. She slid her fingers up the length of what she recognized as Brad’s shotgun.

  Don’t make a sound.

  “Like hell I won’t,” she said with determination. Sitting, propped against the corner post of the shelves, she fumbled to remove the canvas case. “Please, God, let it be loaded,” she prayed, aiming in the dark at what she thought was plasterboard wall just to the right of the blocked door. She grimaced and pulled the trigger. Blam! The sound was deafening and her shoulder screamed with pain. Ears still roaring from the first blast, she moved the barrel a few inches to the right and pulled the trigger again.

  Dragging her tethered legs behind her, Robin flopped like a seal to the wall, now a mess of shattered plasterboard and wood, and began clawing her way out into the smoke-filled hallway. Each breath brought searing pain to her lungs.

  Even after scrabbling through the ragged opening, there was no light to guide her. Robin gasped and coughed, feeling her way toward safety—she could see it now, a narrow band, just a couple of inches of dim light under the billows of black smoke. Fire doesn’t bring light, it brings pure, impenetrable blackness, she thought idly just before losing consciousness.

  Catherine lay on a sandbank, Grover panting beside her. He whined and nosed her. She rolled to her side and vomited water onto the sand before slowly propping herself on hands and knees and standing shakily. “I’m up, I’m up!” she said, sounding like her young self answering her mother’s verbal alarm on school mornings. Her eyes lifted to see the sky filled with ominous dark smoke. Maybe it was her overstretched imagination, but she could swear she heard a gunshot blast, followed by another. “Go on! Go get Robin!” She shoved against his haunches.

  Grover barked three loud barks.

  “Go,” she pled. “Please go.”

  Bracing himself in a wide-legged stance, he took her forearm in his mouth and tugged.

  Having forded the creek upstream in the shallows, George Wellman ran to the uniformed officer, yelling, “She’s in there! Mrs. B. is in there!” He gesticulated wildly.

  “What?” Brill mouthed, slamming the trunk of the sheriff’s car.

  He saw the double blade of the axe in her hands.

  “She’s still in the cabin!” he bawled.

  Deputy Brill wasn’t about to wait for the fire trucks. “I’m going in!”

  “I’ll go!” George bellowed, grabbing her by her uniform shirt.

  She twisted out of his grasp and headed for the side door.

  With a mental shrug, he followed.

  They’d covered half the distance to the building when they both stopped in mid-stride. An ominous groan was heard through the roar of the fire. The center of the roof sagged, then collapsed. Dark smoke puffed out from the epicenter, and flames flared upward.

  “Robin! No!” Cate’s shriek cut through the air.

  George and the deputy turned to see the dark-haired woman racing toward them, the dog flying along at her side. George hurled himself at her, nabbing her around the middle and throwing her to the ground to keep her from racing into the inferno. Grover, unchecked, sped past them and disappeared around the side of the collapsing building. The entire west side of the building was now engulfed in flames.

  One woman on the rocks above the falls, dead or seriously injured. Need rescue equipment. Large hunting lodge on fire. Unsalvageable. The cabin owner missing and presumed to be inside. Danger of fire spreading to trees. Sheriff Harley had just called in the update when he looked up to see the roof cave in. He ran, looking up at the old chimney as he passed it, expecting it to fall any second.

  The fire truck screeched toward him, stopped, and four firefighters leapt out. “Get back,” one of them yelled.

  Deputy Brill, ignoring the order, followed the sound of the barking dog.

  Meanwhile, Cate, suffocating under the weight of George Wellman, screamed at him to get off her before heaving him to the side and scrambling to her feet.

  A few feet beyond the charred side door stood Grover, his bark deep and rhythmic, his hair singed and blacken
ed. Beneath him on the ground and barely visible through the smoke, Cate now saw, lay Robin. Grover dipped his blackened muzzle, took her leg in his mouth and tugged.

  One of the firemen, a young man with a crooked nose, came up behind Cate and knelt over Robin. “She’s breathing!” he called out. He did a cursory examination of her as best he could with a 200-pound dog attached to her pants leg. “What the hell?” His fingers slipped between her ankles and seized upon the thing that bound them. “Somebody tied her up.”

  Cate leaned forward, horrified.

  He pulled a knife from his belt and sawed through the electrical cord. “Okay, let’s move her.” The second fireman came with a stretcher and together they lifted her. Only then did Grover let go.

  Brill stooped to pick up the severed cord as evidence.

  Well away from the building and beyond the incapacitating smoke, the firemen set Robin’s stretcher on the grass.

  Her eyes opened. She squinted in the bright sun.

  “Ambulance is on the way,” the young fireman said as he felt her pulse. “Who did this? Who tied you up?”

  Robin opened her mouth but no sound emerged. Her eyes filled with tears.

  The others gathered nearby, Cate, Deputy Brill, and George. Grover circled them, woofing. Cate squatted to squeeze Robin’s hand.

  “Fire.” Robin’s eyelids fluttered.

  Cate, straining to hear Robin’s voice, saw her friend’s eyes roll back and wondered if she was going to lose her after all.

  Robin grimaced, or maybe it was an attempt at a smile. “You and you and you,…” she rasped through blackened lips as she looked from one to the next. This time, the smile was unmistakable.

  The sheriff’s face floated into view behind Cate.

  Robin’s eyes rolled to take him in. “… and you were there,” she continued in a voice so weak they had to lean close. “But you couldn’t have been, could you?”