In fact, it was time to go. She was suddenly aware of how hungry she was, and how tired. The heat of a new sunburn singed her shoulders and cheekbones and her eyes felt the strain of a day spent staring at water reflecting the sun's brilliance. From fall to spring Megan taught kindergarten in the small local school, but from the time she'd quit competitive swimming she had spent summers lifeguarding at the public beach. The county had been good about giving her time off to do endorsements; in return, she'd been something of a tourist attraction for the first few years. She had worked at the beach for six years now and as the manager for the last four.
"You ought to be sick of the lake," she said aloud. But somehow Megan knew that she wasn't and never would be. Devil's Lake was home. If she sometimes felt she had to pay a price for the right to belong here, it was a belief she kept to herself.
Megan was about to slide off her boulder and retreat to her car when motion out on the boat arrested her attention. Two men were standing. She thought they were men. The boat rocked as they seemed to be lifting something bulky, struggling to get it over the gunwale. Then the long dark shape fell, raising a small splash as it hit, sending ripples to shiver over the mirror-like surface of the lake. For a second the shape seemed to move, to struggle, although that might have been an illusion. For then, slowly, it slipped beneath the water in quiet surrender.
Megan's mouth was open, a cry trapped in her throat. For a moment stillness reigned as the men stared down at the water and she tried to comprehend what she had seen. Already the ripples were fading, the dark shape gone as if it had never been. By the time the boat engine roared harshly to life, Megan had jumped from the rock and was running.
Over the guardrail, sliding down a slab of granite, desperately pushing past small firs. The soles of her canvas tennis shoes slipped and she fell to her knees, but she didn't even notice the pain. The rocky point that protected the cove sloped downhill, not wide enough to have been built on, but a faint trail showed that fishermen or teenagers out for a skinny dip sometimes came this way. Megan let her feet find their own path, faster than was safe. Her eyes were glued to the spot where the ripples had begun. The boat had sprung away, the powerful engine at full throttle, and in a wide curve disappeared out into the open lake.
Stumbling to a stop where the point dropped into the deep, cold water, Megan kicked off her shoes, ripped off her jeans. She hadn't even stopped to think. A lifeguard didn't, when someone was drowning. Knowing it was probably futile, still she was about to dive in when something white broke the surface of the water out in the middle of the cove. A splash, an arm reaching for the help that wasn't there. Another splash. That much she could see. The struggle was weak, desperate. She hit the water, scarcely aware of the shock from the cold. Head down, she sprinted, faster than she had ever gone back in her racing days. She didn't want to take her eyes off the victim, but there was too far to go. Speed was more important.
Several times she lifted her head, focused just long enough to be sure she was aiming in the right direction. Near the end she swam with her head up, her crawl stroke choppy but fast. Ahead, the struggles diminished. Hold on, Megan screamed silently. Hold on. For a second she lost sight, as if the lake had won, but then a dark head reappeared, a feeble splash.
It was a man, floating on his back, eyes closed, water sliding over his face. He looked dead.
Megan slipped up behind him, cupped his chin and swiftly tucked her other arm over his chest, locking his long body against her hip. She was prepared when he fought briefly, though she was submerged by his weight and strength. When he collapsed into quiescence again, Megan shook the water from her face and said urgently, "It's okay. I'm going to help you. Can you hear me? Just relax."
For a second he stirred and she tightened her grasp, but then she heard a hoarse voice. "Can't swim."
"It's okay," she said again, her legs opening and closing in a powerful scissor kick. He was heavy, too heavy for her. She had to snatch breaths as water rolled over her face. Darkness was closing with frightening suddenness. It was a miracle that she had seen him thrown overboard. Ten minutes later she wouldn't have. If only she could swim for the nearest shore, but the rock slabs dropping into the cove were too steep. Only at the tip of the point would she be able to pull him out. Already she was exhausted.
She had told him a lie. It wasn't okay. They wouldn't make it. Not like this. If he couldn't help... But she refused to think about it. Stopping, Megan treaded water, supporting his head and shoulders. She could hear herself breathing in desperate gasps.
"I need your help," she said forcefully. "Are you listening?"
An eternity seemed to pass, and then his head nodded, rocking against her breast.
"I need you to float on your back, with your hands on my shoulders. You have to keep your arms stiff. Can you do that?"
Again the pause, the achingly slow response. Again a nod. She wondered if his thoughts were moving as slowly.
As he floated free, she kept her hand beneath his neck, making sure he didn't swallow water. They changed position, his hands groping blindly before finding her shoulders to grasp with frightening strength.
For just an instant his eyes opened. She could tell they were light colored, his face was so close to hers. In their glazed depths she saw the battle he fought to hold on. Her lips moved to reassure him again, but the words died as his eyes closed.
She used the strong breaststroke that had won her a spot on the U.S. Olympic team. Their passage was utterly quiet. Time seemed to have begun and ended. It was a nightmare, her fear a part of the gathering dusk and the bone-deep cold of the water. What if her strength gave out? Would she have the courage to let him go, watch him slip into the dark tomb below?
The sound of a car passing on the lake road came to her, then the muted call of an owl. She wondered if the man might have died, if his fingers might be clenching her in a death grip. Then the rasp of a harsh breath stilled that fear.
The point lay just ahead, like the back of a great beast rising out of the lake. Megan strained her eyes to see, praying that she wouldn't ram his head against a rock. Almost there, she thought. Almost there. Dark water slapped over the man's face and he coughed weakly. He must have a concussion at least, she thought.
Suddenly she became aware of the twin beams of headlights on the road above, playing over the trees, the rocks, her car. She imagined the driver, maybe even someone she knew, admiring the last hint of color above the ridge, never guessing at the drama below in the dusk-shrouded cove. Only then, just past the turnoff, there was a quick flicker of brake lights, a hesitation. Oh, God, she thought in fresh panic, like a hunted animal. What if they had come back in a car? It would be so easy for them to check the shore. There was nowhere to hide. Beneath the water might still be a refuge for her, but for him...impossible.
But then the car went on. Perhaps the driver had braked for a curve, or had hesitated as he glanced at her Honda, wondering if somebody might need help. Well, she needed help all right, but the road and any passing drivers were beyond her reach.
"We're here," she said loudly, in a voice that cracked. "You have to let go of me now."
One finger at a time, he obeyed. Megan slipped under him, hugging him about the chest again as she felt for the rocks ahead with her free hand. There. A scrape against her fingertips. Too steep. She turned to edge along the shore. Her knee skinned against a rock as she scissor-kicked, but the sting scarcely registered.
Suddenly the rock was flat and she braced herself with her hand, pulling the weight of two bodies in. Laying his head on the rock, she crawled out, grabbed him under the arms, and struggled to pull him higher out of the water. He was impossibly heavy, dead weight. She was shaking all over from cold and fear and exhaustion. But they had made it, she realized; she could safely let him go. At last she crumpled beside him, half in, half out of the water.
Megan began to think again when a spasm shook him. Could she go for help? She was afraid to leave him alone. An
d afraid to stop any car that passed. She had no idea what the men in the boat had looked like. What if she led death right to him, after she had fought so hard for his life?
It was the first time she had ever rescued anybody away from the beach, with its network of other lifeguards and a telephone that summoned an ambulance within ten minutes. At the beach they would have strapped this man to a backboard because of his head injury. But as another car drove slowly by on the road above, Megan had become increasingly conscious of their vulnerability. He was not a victim of an accident; somebody had tried to murder this man. The two men on the boat would not be happy to discover they had failed.
Megan sighed and pushed herself to a sitting position. Her shakes had eased, only to be replaced by shivers. The elevation was high enough here that nights were always cool, and the water in the deep, glacially formed lake never warmed above frigid.
She reached out a hand to touch his shoulder and he groaned.
"Can you hear me?" She was almost whispering, aware of the increasing darkness around them. "Do you think you can walk?"
Silence, then he said in a thick voice, "Walk?" There was a pause, during which she could sense his struggle to understand. "Yeah," he said finally. "God, I have a headache."
"I can go for help," Megan said. "If...if you'll be safe here."
A few seconds passed. "No." He rolled toward her, another groan torn from his throat. "Help me up."
Somehow she got him to his feet, although her legs were shaking again before they had taken even a step. He was taller, heavier, and when he stumbled she had to wrap both arms around his waist to keep them from falling. Stones cut into her bare feet and she wished she had taken the time to find her clothes. Her wet T-shirt and underwear didn't provide any protection. But it was too late now. At least he wore shoes along with sodden jeans and some kind of thin shirt that clung to the hard muscles of his chest and arms.
In the water she had thought it was a nightmare, but this was worse, far worse. The rocks she had so heedlessly slid down had to be laboriously climbed. Their feet slipped, his weight nearly crumpling her. The arm that lay across her shoulders felt like an iron bar, one that in normal circumstances she could never have lifted. Perhaps she had become numb, because she kept putting one bleeding foot in front of the other, kept hoisting and dragging, holding him up when he staggered, murmuring directions and encouragement.
"Up a little here. Watch out for that tree. Come on, we're almost there. We're making it."
Unbelievably, they were. They had. The ground was level, the car just ahead. They went around the end of the guardrail, instead of trying to climb over it. Across the gravel turn-out. He had leaned heavily against the car as she reached for the door handle when a horrifying thought hit her.
"My keys. Oh, my God!"
Had she put them in the pocket of her jeans? She couldn't remember. When she wrenched open the door and the small roof light came on, illuminating the key still dangling from the ignition, Megan sagged with the most overwhelming relief she had ever felt. She could have made it back down there, of course she could, but she wasn't sure how. Thank heaven for her carelessness.
"A car's coming." His voice still sounded thick, strained, but there was alarm in it.
"Get in," she said. "Hurry." She almost pushed him as he fell in, then slammed the door and ran to her own side. They had both slumped low in their seats by the time the headlights flashed over her Civic. Megan didn't breathe until the other car had passed, the sound of the engine diminishing.
Her hand trembled as she reached for the key and turned it. The engine sprang instantly to life. Megan glanced at her passenger, expecting to see his eyes closed, only to find him watching her. She was suddenly aware of his presence in a new and slightly frightening way. He had been strong enough to make it this far, when most men would have died. In the dim light from the dashboard she could see that he was big, broad-shouldered, with a face made harsh by pain. Water-darkened hair was plastered against his skull. There was something in his eyes, a wariness, that made her wary in turn. Ordinary people were not knocked unconscious and thrown overboard from a boat.
"Who are you?" he said. "Where are you taking me?"
She swallowed. "I'm Megan Lovell. I... I'm in charge of the public beach. I was on my way home and..." She stopped, bit her lip. "I'm taking you to the hospital."
She could feel his tension in the silence that followed, but suddenly he exhaled and let his head fall back against the seat's headrest. His eyes had closed. "Okay," he said in a voice that had become more slurred. "But don't tell them... Hell. That doesn't make sense."
"I don't understand. What doesn't make sense?" Megan put the small car in gear. It lurched when she pressed with her bare foot on the accelerator, but after a brief crunch of gravel they were on the road, heading toward town. Only darkness showed in the rearview mirror. For the first time in what seemed an eternity, she began to feel safe.
He didn't answer her directly. "What did you see?"
She told the truth. "I saw two men throw you out of the boat."
He sounded even more distant, as though every word was an effort. "Did you see...them?"
"You mean, to identify? No. But surely you did."
He didn't answer. When she tore her gaze from the road, it was to discover that he had slid sideways, his head now resting against the door. He looked as though he were asleep, but she knew better. Even in the darkness she saw the blood that dripped down his forehead.
Praying under her breath, Megan stamped down harder on the accelerator and the small car leaped eagerly into the curves. What if he was paralyzed because she had made him walk? What if he died? She didn't even know his name.
The medical clinic that maintained a few hospital beds was mercifully on this side of town. She pulled right up to the brightly lit emergency entrance.
Even before she had gotten out of the car, a nurse had appeared, taken in the man's condition with one glance, and turned to snap orders at an attendant who had started to follow her out. With relief Megan recognized the nurse. She'd known Pam since third grade. Suddenly superfluous, Megan hunched her shoulders, for the first time conscious of the wet T-shirt and panties that had molded themselves into a second skin. Within minutes, her passenger was on a gurney, blood pressure being checked as he was wheeled away.
When the nurse reappeared, she said, "What happened?"
"I found him drowning in the lake," Megan said acerbically. She pulled the T-shirt away from her breasts. "What's it look like?"
Her friend raised a brow, looked Megan over from her dripping hair to her bare legs, then said, "Good Lord, your feet! Stay there. No, don't move."
Megan found herself stuffed into a wheelchair with her feet immersed in a basin of something nasty that stung. The small blonde nurse swabbed antiseptic on Megan's skinned knee and then taped a gauze bandage on it.
"Why didn't you call an ambulance?"
"Because it didn't happen at the beach." Megan hesitated only for a second. "Pam, some men dropped him out in the lake. Unconscious. I think you'd better call the police."
Her friend sank back on her heels, staring at Megan. "Are you sure?" She shook her head. "Never mind, you can explain it to them."
While she waited for somebody to arrive from the sheriff’s office, Megan accepted the offer of a towel and a pair of sacky green scrub pants with a draw-cord waist and a matching top. Looking down at herself in the new ensemble, she wrinkled her nose. Oh, well. At least she wasn't the next thing to naked.
Megan knew almost everyone in the small town, so it was no surprise to her that the deputy who showed up happened to be the father of a boy she'd had a crush on in junior high.
She greeted him with relief. "Mr. Tevis. Or should I say, Officer?"
"Pete's fine." The bony face below the graying crewcut quirked into a smile. "Unless the uniform scares you off."
"No, I'm much too glad to see you." Behind the deputy, Pam had emerged from the emer
gency room looking preoccupied. Megan said quickly, "Is he...all right?"
"Still unconscious. Of course he has a concussion, so that's not surprising. Did he talk to you?"
Megan nodded. "His voice was slurred, but he seemed...well, rational."
Pam disappeared again. Pete Tevis pulled a plastic chair up in front of Megan. His graying brows rose a little at the sight of the pinkish solution in which her feet were immersed. "Blood?"
"I was barefoot."
"Okay, what's the story?"
She told him, as matter-of-factly as possible. He made notes on his clipboard, then leaned back to look at her. "You're sure the boat came from the marina?"
"I can't be positive, but I'm reasonably sure."
Without another word he stood and went behind the desk to the telephone. She couldn't quite hear his end of the conversation but assumed he had called Joe Carlson at the marina. When Pete came back, he was frowning. "A couple of strangers did rent a boat late this afternoon. They've returned it and gone. I'll follow up on the information they put on the rental form, but it may be a pack of lies. And, of course, half the boats went out today. May be a different pair altogether we're looking for."
Megan waited.
"You know anything about this fella you pulled out of the water? Look familiar?"
He wasn't the kind of man you forgot. Megan shook her head. "I've never seen him before. I don't know all the summer crowd, though. He didn't tell me his name."
"Pam says there's no wallet in his pocket." Looking thoughtful, he ran a hand over his crewcut. "Well, I imagine he'll be able to tell me the whole story soon enough. I wouldn't mind having a chat with our two strangers who took a trip down the lake, though." He levered his long length up from the hard chair. "Well, I'll get on with it. And you should be heading on home, drying your hair and having a hot cup of tea. You can feel pretty good about what you did."
"Thanks." She smiled wryly. "I'll feel better when I know he's going to be okay."
All Through The House Page 20