ShadowsintheMist

by Maureen McMahon

  “Have you talked to Grant yet?”

  I tensed, then realized what she meant. “No.” I waved an impatient hand as she opened her mouth to protest. “I know, I know! I’ll have to do it soon. It’s just so…hard.”

  I bit into my apple, relishing the crunch and rush of juice. How could I possibly go through with the marriage now, suspecting Grant as I did? Still, I’d probably be safer married to him than not. As his wife, I could be pretty sure he wouldn’t bump me off right away—at least, not until he managed to manipulate the Dirkston fortune out of my hands and into his own. If I didn’t marry him, there’d be no reason for him to want me alive and a very good reason to want me dead.

  “Yes,” I said, almost to myself. “I believe I’ll have to set a date right away.”

  Jenny squinted at me curiously. “What are you hatching in there? Whatever it is, I suspect it’s dastardly.”

  “Yes.” I laughed. “I suppose it is. But no more so than Leo or Grant deserve.”

  “Poor Grant.” She sighed. “I doubt he’ll stand much of a chance against you. Anyway, if it were me, I wouldn’t worry so much about having a year of legal love with him. He’s not such a bad catch, you know.”

  I choked. “Are you serious?”

  She looked at me levelly. “Well, don’t you think so?”

  I considered the idea. If not for my rampant suspicions, I considered Grant Fenton a very attractive man and, up until recently, had almost come to like him. I pushed the thought aside. There was no room for idle dreaming. Our recent encounter had painted a darker portrait of him in my mind and those early days seemed far removed.

  As if to underline that thought, a loud crack sounded in the distance and almost immediately, the twig of a tree above us snapped off and fell into the water at our feet. There was another crack and a loud thud as something struck the riverbank behind us. We froze, confused. Then I saw the glint of metal between trees at the top of a rise some distance ahead.

  “My God, someone’s shooting at us! Get back, Jenny!”

  The next few moments were confusion. Instinctively, I leapt to my feet and clambered up the sharp bank behind me. I fell flat at the top and squirmed deep into the shadowy protection of the forest. At first, I sensed Jenny following close behind but when I took the time to look back, I was alone and an ominous silence surrounded me, broken only by my own heavy breathing and thudding heartbeat.

  “Jenny,” I hissed urgently. Silence.

  There was a rustling in the underbrush and I whirled, catching my arm on a sharp briar. I cried out as the thorns tore my flesh. The movement I heard was only a chipmunk foraging among the fallen leaves for food. I lay still for some time, straining my ears for any sound of my friend or the gunman. When nothing happened, I carefully turned myself around and crept back to the edge of the bank. I was horrified at the sight that met my eyes.

  Jenny lay on her back at the river’s edge. One hand was flung over her head into the water. The other was out to one side, clutching a small tree root that must have broken off in her haste to scale the embankment. Her eyes were shut, though her head nodded with the lapping of water around it. Long strands of her golden hair trailed out like tongues of flame into the dark pool. The sand beneath her back was slowly turning red.

  Heedless of the shooter who might still be waiting on the distant hill, I half-rolled, half-fell down the incline in my panic to reach her. I pressed my fingers to the side of her neck and was somewhat relieved to feel a strong pulse. She didn’t stir at my touch, however and I knew I’d have to find help quickly.

  I pulled her farther up onto the shore, into a slight niche formed at the base of the rise. Then, I rummaged through my own bag of belongings, cursing inwardly for having left my cell phone at home. I pulled out a towel, wadding it into a compress. Lifting her prone body a fraction, I was able to fix the padding tightly against the wound with one of the elastic cords used to secure the cooler. As a last measure, I covered her with what few bits of clothing and towels remained, stripping off my own light cover-up to add what warmth I could.

  I glanced around. The river was unusually empty, though I remembered a number of canoes lined up at the starting point. There was bound to be someone along at any moment but I couldn’t wait. I had a better chance of hailing someone from the river’s edge as I made my way back on foot. There was no point in going down river. There would be no help in that direction for at least five miles. I only hoped the gunman was gone and not waiting to finish the job.

  Taking to the woods and keeping the river in sight, I hurried as quickly as I could, running where possible, regardless of the underbrush that tore at my unprotected legs and the small branches that whipped my face and arms.

  Less than five minutes later, I heard the sound of voices and the rattle and clank of canoes. I ran faster and skidded down to the water’s edge just as three crafts approached. I hailed them frantically and, seeing my obvious urgency, they paddled closer. I explained the situation as briefly as possible. There were three couples and all of them listened with growing concern, agreeing to remain with Jenny until I was able to return with help. One of the men was a radiologist who knew first aid and would do what he could. I hurried on, my mind filled with the image of Jenny’s life seeping away like the blood from her wound.

  When at last I found help, it wasn’t at our starting point but rather a road that bridged the river about a mile further. It was a dirt road and though fairly wide and well-kept, it stretched empty in both directions. I could continue on toward where I’d left my car, or try to find a house and a phone. Temporarily indecisive, I finally struck out east toward Scottville because I knew it was closer than Ludington to the west.

  I continued running, wishing I’d kept up my beach jogging with Giles. Sweat dripped from my face and neck and the small dust clouds kicked up by my pounding feet clung to my skin until I was gray with it. The sun beat down on my bare flesh and, although the black-and-yellow bikini I wore was cooler than heavy clothing, it provided no protection from the burning ultraviolet rays.

  Fortunately, I didn’t have to go far before a small, white, rickety pickup overtook me. I managed to wave it down and within seconds, was seated alongside an elderly farmer, gasping out my story as he drove swiftly to a nearby house to call for help.

  The rescue wasn’t an easy one. Paramedics had to weave their ambulance down one of the fire trails cut to accommodate firefighters. These trails crisscrossed everywhere and it was only with the help of the local ranger that they were able to find their way to within yards of the place where a crowd of canoeists and inner-tubists had now gathered.

  I refused to go ahead to the hospital as suggested, insisting they allow me to accompany them. They conceded, merely, I suspected, because I was the only one who knew the exact location and could direct them. Once we arrived, I was shunted aside as a stretcher and miscellaneous medical equipment were handed down to where Jenny still lay unconscious.

  I watched in shock. The man who’d claimed some knowledge of first aid came to stand near me and assured me he’d done what he could but there was no way to know how bad the wound was. When I didn’t respond, he touched my shoulder gently. “You should have someone take a look at those cuts, miss.”

  I looked at him vaguely. He was a middle-aged man with graying sideburns, a round nose and a slightly sagging waistline. His eyes were sympathetic and I looked down at myself dazedly. My arms and legs were cut and bleeding and bruises were already darkening. I put a hand to my head and felt a rising lump where I’d run into a branch. There was a deep scrape on one cheek from where I fell in my rush to Jenny’s side.

  I nodded at the man’s suggestion but completely forgot it as the medics brought Jenny up on the stretcher. An oxygen mask covered her mouth and nose and an intravenous drip was held aloft by an attendant. A heavy blanket was wrapped around her under the retaining straps. She was so very pale.

  “Is she…”

  “She’s alive,” one of th
e men responded in clipped haste.

  They loaded her into the ambulance and, forbidden to ride in the rear with the attendant, I climbed into the front seat. We set off at a painfully slow pace over the rutted forest track. The revolving red light on top cast ruby shards across the sun-speckled trees. Once we reached the road, the siren was switched on and we sped urgently toward the hospital.

  Chapter Seven

  Of calling shapes and beckoning shadows dire,

  And airy tongues, that syllable men’s names

  On sands and shores and desert wilderness.

  John Milton, Comus, A Mask

  I found a new retreat where even David would be hard-pressed to find me. I wasn’t allowed to come here as a child without supervision. The lighthouse stood behind me, a protective fortress between me and the mansion, squatting atop its perch with dark windows watching my every move. This spot belonged to the lighthouse. She’d stood on this rocky jetty for years, weathering storm after storm, her mortared bulk rooted inescapably into the ancient bolders.

  I felt a strange companionship with her, like one convict for another. We were both prisoners—the lighthouse, steadfast against the continual buffeting of nature’s whims and me, braced strongly in my own right against the onslaught of murder, suspicion, fear and frustration.

  Winter was approaching. I could feel it in the breeze. The sky was overcast with gray autumn clouds blanketing everything in shapeless mist. Even the lake was moody, swirling and perverse, as though waiting impatiently for some cue to rise up. It too, must have sensed the approach of winter, nibbling skittishly at my rocky throne.

  The outcropping where I sat was made up of huge gray and black boulders, arranged at least a hundred years ago to serve as a platform for the lighthouse. The rocks, smoothed by the constant caress of waves, offered a labyrinth of crevices and cracks where one slip might cause serious injury. In some places, moss and algae grew green and blue, blending together in a woolly blur. This softened the surfaces but made footing even more perilous.

  It was three days since the shooting. Jenny clung to life. The bullet had punctured a lung and lodged precariously close to her heart. It was a miracle that the loss of blood hadn’t killed her but youth and strength had saved her until a transfusion could be administered. They didn’t operate until her condition had stabilized at least eight hours later, then the surgery itself took over six hours. The subsequent prognosis was uncertain.

  I’d stayed at the hospital the rest of the day and would have stayed longer had the situation permitted. I hardly noticed the young intern who insisted on patching my abrasions or the nurse, who after giving up on persuading me to go home, wrapped a blanket around me and placed a steaming cup of coffee in my hands.

  Jenny’s mother had arrived within minutes and I told her what I could. She was a tall, big-boned woman with veins showing in her pale arms and eyes that seemed too large for her face. Her hair, once blonde like Jenny’s, was dyed a darker, brownish shade and was wound loosely on top of her head. Her clothing was limp. She’d come directly from work, a Dirkston regional office in Ludington where she was clerical supervisor. She’d aged considerably since I’d seen her last and the present worry further accentuated the lines around her mouth and eyes.

  During my youth, Leo tolerated my friendship with Jenny. Jenny’s father was a foreman at the docks in Ludington and, though he brought home a comfortable wage and was a kind, likeable man, Leo didn’t consider the Hamptons suitably classed for me. Even as a child, however, I was strong-willed and he finally relented and allowed our relationship limited scope.

  When Jenny’s father died of a heart attack, the Hamptons were thrown into a financial dilemma. Leo, despite his snobbery, helped them out where he could and gave Jenny’s mother a job at the firm. Meanwhile, Jenny waitressed part-time and through hard work and determination, managed to earn a scholarship to Michigan State University.

  I was never sure exactly what Mrs. Hampton thought of me. She was always impeccably polite but there was a hint of stiffness, perhaps resentment, that I found sadly impregnable.

  After I spilled out my story to her, she lapsed into silence, seemingly intent on pacing the small waiting room or gazing blindly out the window that overlooked the main street. I wondered if she blamed me for the accident.

  I figured I might have been indirectly responsible. It seemed plausible that whoever fired those shots might have been aiming at me and I suspected it was the same person who killed my father. Somehow, they knew I’d found the murder weapon and were bent on revenge. Mrs. Hampton didn’t know any of this, however and her accusing attitude hurt and puzzled me.

  When the police came, I still didn’t voice my fears. It was Sergeant Davison, the same officer I spoke to at the station. He seemed uninterested in hearing my hypothesis, continually demanding in television stereotype that I “stick to the facts”. I asked him matter-of-factly if Mr. Fenton had by any chance been to see him recently and wasn’t surprised when he shook his head no.

  Mrs. Hampton listened to the police interview silently from the far side of the room. When he was finished, the officer approached her and spoke so softly I could barely piece together the conversation.

  “Hunters out this time of year,” he said. “Amateurs… Accidents happen… Investigation…”

  I stood up, incensed. “That was no accident,” I fumed. The two turned to look at me in surprise. “That man was aiming at us. I saw him. He was trying to kill us!” I hardly knew what I was saying. My hands trembled and I felt weak as I clutched the blanket around me.

  Mrs. Hampton went even more pale and placed a hand on the back of a chair for support. “What are you saying, Suzanna? Who? Who would want to kill my Jenny?”

  “No,” I cried desperately. “Not Jenny! He wanted to kill me! I know it! First, he killed my father and now he wants to kill me!” I burst into tears.

  The floor nurse, hearing my raised voice, hurried in and tried to comfort me, pulling me aside and urging me to sit on the brown vinyl couch.

  “Take these,” she said, holding out two tablets and a paper cup with water. “You’ll feel better.”

  Numbly, I did as I was told. My outburst had left me totally drained. When the nurse was sure I was calmer, she left, casting a scowl over her shoulder at the sergeant.

  He turned back to Mrs. Hampton and proceeded to assure her my allegations would be looked into but added, “Miss Dirkston is obviously suffering from shock on top of grief over her father’s recent demise and can’t be taken seriously.”

  I remained sullenly silent, realizing nothing I could say would convince this small-town policeman there was a murderer loose in the area. Besides, I had to admit there was a slim possibility he was right. All I actually saw was the flash of the gun on the distant ridge. I didn’t even know for sure if the shooter was male or female. It seemed a bit farfetched, though, that an innocent hunter would fire so many misplaced shots. One, perhaps but not three.

  Sergeant Davison left with a few more reassuring words to Jenny’s mother and promises to me that he would have my claims investigated. We watched him go with dubious expressions, then fell once more into our own separate distractions.

  David arrived a few minutes later, his face a picture of concern. I was never so glad to see him and accepted his embrace wordlessly, sobbing as he led me back to the couch and sat with me. He wanted to take me home at once—in fact, he insisted. But I refused, determined to remain until there was word on Jenny’s condition.

  “Everyone will be worried about you, Suzanna,” he argued. “Besides, you look awful. You need to get some clothes and something to eat.”

  “I’m all right,” I insisted. “Call the house and tell them not to worry. I have to stay.”

  He knew that once I set my mind on something, it was useless to argue, so he compromised, insisting on phoning the house to arrange for the clothes and food to be sent up. And, if I would be all right without him, he’d go and see what he could do to
assist the police. At least he didn’t seem to think my theory about it being a deliberate attack was unreasonable. My claims that Leo was murdered were met with less credibility but at least he listened. His eyebrows lifted when I quietly told him about the poker and how Grant had wrested it from me, claiming he would take it to the police.

  David pulled me close and gently smoothed my hair back. “No wonder you’ve been so strung out lately,” he murmured. “But you don’t have to worry any longer. We’ll solve this thing together.” He sat back and looked into my eyes seriously. “If what you say is true, I think you should consider getting out of that house and coming to stay with Dad and me for a while. I don’t want you anywhere near Fenton.”

  I nodded with relief. It was a comfort to have someone else shoulder the burden of doubt and suspicion for a while. Why hadn’t I turned to David from the start?

  After he left, I was content to sit quietly. I was only just beginning to feel the throb of my multiple injuries, though the pills the nurse gave me seemed to wrap me in a cloud of hollow apathy.

  An hour later, Jenny’s mother was escorted down the hall to the Intensive Care Unit while the same nurse gave me a brief summary of Jenny’s condition and told me only the immediate family was allowed to visit. They were preparing Jenny for the operation.

  “I believe someone is on their way with some clothes and food for you,” she said, smiling. “Mr. Lancaster wanted me to tell you.”

  I nodded and thanked her. Probably Martha or Lottie would bring my things. I’d be glad to change but doubted I’d be able to eat a bite.

  It was Grant who came. He barged into the waiting room with such ferocity I jumped. At the sight of him, my heart began to thump erratically, fear filling my veins like lava.

  “What’s going on here?” he demanded, his voice filling the room. “I can’t get a coherent explanation from anyone! Are you all right, Suzie? What’s happened to Jenny?”