by Tracy Weber
It was clearly time for a new approach. I’d already tried yelling at Monica—mocking her, even—with less than optimal results. I suspected reasoning with her wouldn’t work, either, but I had to give it a try.
If Monica and I were going to be trapped on the same island for seven more days, we’d have to come up with a compromise. Maybe she’d be more careful once she learned about the trouble Bandit had caused this morning. Even if she refused to keep him leashed, maybe we could work out a schedule—a safe time for Bella to walk outside. No one who owned a dog could be all evil, could they?
I stopped at the entrance. The sign clearly indicated that the spa was still closed. I cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled, “Hello!”
No response.
I pushed on the unlocked gate. It opened with a low, eerie squeak.
I paused, suddenly wary, and not about my upcoming altercation. The back of my neck tingled. Yoga teachers are deeply attuned to subtle energy. We can even be overwhelmed—hijacked, in a way—by energetic shifts. The energy in this place had been corrupted. It felt jarring. Angry. I considered retreating to my cabin, but something propelled me. Something forced me to move forward.
I reassured myself with idle mental chatter. Come on, Kate. Of course the energy feels off. Think about who’s lurking in there. My mouth went dry. Perhaps the word “lurking” wasn’t the best choice.
I called out in what I hoped was a firm and confident voice. “Monica!” No answer. I left the gate open and eased up the stairs, past a three-foot-tall statue of Ganesh, the Hindu elephant god. Ganesh was the remover of obstacles. That had to be a good sign, right?
I continued ascending, step by cautious step. “Monica, are you there?”
I stood at the top of the steps, waiting and listening. The caustic scent of humidified chlorine burned my nostrils. The mechanized bubble of water jets roared in my ears. “Monica?” My voice sounded tentative, even to me.
I turned the corner, walked halfway across the deck, and froze. Monica was, indeed, floating in one of the tubs. Face down. Completely naked, except for the rhinestone-studded dog leash wrapped around her neck.
eight
I scrambled to the edge of the sunken tub. Deep in my core, I knew that it was too late to save Monica, but I had to try. I looked around the deserted area, willing someone—anyone—to magically appear.
“Help! Somebody, help!” I screamed.
I jumped into the hot, gurgling water, turned Monica over, and shook her, trying not to fixate on the gruesome blue color of her lips or the splotches of red dotting her eyes.
“Monica, wake up! You have to wake up!”
No response.
I jumped out of the water, grabbed her arms, and tried to pull her out, but my hands slipped uselessly across her wet skin. Beads of sweat dripped from my hairline and pooled with the frustrated tears pouring down my cheeks. I was immobilized—trapped between irreconcilable options. I couldn’t stay here; I’d never save Monica by myself. But I couldn’t leave her alone, either.
I reached for my cell phone, but my hands came back empty. Why did I leave it behind? I frantically scanned the area around me, but I found no phone, no intercom, no connection to the outside world. Only Monica’s clothing, piled on a nearby bench.
Maybe Monica brought a phone. I pawed through her belongings, dimly aware of her lingering scent: cigarette smoke mixed with musky perfume. My hands found towels, clothes, cigarettes, and keys, but no electronic devices.
“Help me!” I screamed to the void.
My mind finally grasped the obvious. If I wasted any more time, Monica would be dead for sure.
Time to stop yelling and focus on rescue.
If pulling from above didn’t work, maybe I could push her out from below. I jumped back into the water, took a deep breath, and dove under the surface. I pushed up on Monica’s inert form with all my strength. My nerve endings vibrated, fueled by the adrenaline of a soccer mom trying to lift a Volkswagen off of her toddler.
Monica’s body barely moved.
I burst to the surface and gasped for air. I only had one idea left. Swallowing back sour stomach acid, I yanked Monica’s hair out of the way and unwound the leash from her neck. I couldn’t let myself think about the deep, reddish-purple bruise slashed across her throat, so my denial-driven mind latched on to her earlobes instead. A sparkling diamond earring glinted from one; a dark chasm plunged into the other. Had Monica lost one of her earrings when she got dressed that morning? Or had she felt it rip from her body as she fought for her life? I imagined her terror, her pain. Her awful, interminable, final seconds. The deck shifted underneath me.
Dad’s scolding voice rang through my head. Focus, Kate. You can do this. It might not be too late. You might still be able to save her.
I took a deep breath, shook off the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm me, and channeled my inner Bella. I pulled the leash across Monica’s chest, looped it under her armpits, and wrapped it around my hands. I imagined myself about to tug, not on Monica’s body, but on one of Bella’s treasured sticks.
I planted my feet, leaned back, and pulled. Rhinestones bit into my palms. My back and my wrists screamed. But I felt movement. It was working! I bellowed out loud, primordial grunts with each fierce tug. Monica’s upper body slid over the edge. I paused, still gripping the leash, and tried to catch my breath. One more tug, and I’d free her hips as well.
Here we go. One … two …
A metallic crash startled me and ripped away my attention. I jumped and accidentally loosened my hands. Monica slid back into the water, leash still looped around her torso. Rhinestone flowers twinkled uselessly as the leash sank to the bottom.
“What are you doing?” A tall twenty-something man stood at the top of the stairs. His mouth gaped open. The floor around him was strewn with white plastic bottles and a now-empty metal bucket. An irrational thought raced through my mind. You can’t possibly clean this hot tub now, there’s a body in it.
“Oh my God—you’re killing her!”
“I’m not killing her,” I cried. “I’m trying to save her. Now help me!”
For a brief moment, he hesitated, unsure whether I was an innocent bystander, a Good Samaritan, or a killer. He still looked undecided when he knelt next to me.
“You grab her arms,” I said. “I’ve got her feet.” I jumped back into the water. Together, we pulled Monica onto the deck and laid her on her back.
I didn’t think; I just acted. I’d faithfully attended first aid training year after year, praying that I’d never have to use it. I covered Monica’s blue lips with my own, gave two quick breaths, and looked up. My gape-jawed assistant sat there, motionless. “Go get help,” I ordered.
He didn’t move.
“Now!” I yelled.
That jarred him into action. He jumped up and disappeared down the stairs.
A century passed while I puffed into Monica’s lips and pressed rhythmically on her chest. My arms, my back—inexplicably, even my legs—burned from the effort. I pumped and I prayed and I pleaded for help to arrive. Emmy came first, along with the man I’d sent for help. Josh and Bruce appeared a few minutes later.
Emmy’s voice came through a fog, barely penetrating my awareness. “The ambulance is on its way, Dad.”
Bruce shoved me roughly aside. “Get away from her.”
He pressed his fingers to the side of Monica’s neck. Her lips still glowed that horrendous, almost neon shade of blue.
I waited in silence, knowing what Bruce would say next, but hoping—praying—I was wrong. A low gurgle emerged from deep in his throat. He stumbled away from Monica’s body and crumpled to the ground, clutching his chest.
“She’s dead. Oh my God, Monica’s dead.”
_____
The EMTs arrived within minutes, followed by two deputies from the San Juan
County Sheriff’s Department. The paramedics stood helplessly off to the side while a balding, gray-haired deputy held vigil over Monica’s body. A younger Asian officer took charge of us five witnesses.
He led us past a small, murmuring crowd that had gathered outside the spa’s entrance. The ambulance’s lights pulsed in a red-and-white rhythm, keeping time with my pounding head. Disembodied voices crackled over the police cars’ scanners. My mind reeled, trapped within a recurring nightmare.
Could this really be happening again?
Just six months ago, I found my friend George’s body lying in a pool of blood. Just six months ago, I sat inside a police car, assuring two skeptical detectives that I knew nothing about his death. Just six months ago, I collapsed on my bed, certain that I’d never recover from the trauma. That night, just six months ago, still haunted my nightmares.
I should have been immune, or at least numbed, to violence. I’d been raised by a cop, after all. Stupid criminal stories were Dad’s version of Grimm’s fairy tales. But listening to Dad’s tall tales about Seattle’s dumbest lawbreakers was nothing compared to witnessing the true aftereffects of violent crime. I didn’t much like my new point of view.
The deputy separated the five of us, presumably to keep us from synching our stories. After allowing me to change into some dry clothes, he sequestered me in the center’s library and told me that “Sergeant Bill” would take my statement shortly. By “shortly,” he must have meant a few days after Hades turned icy. I paced the small room for well over an hour, reliving the morning and thumbing through magazines I didn’t have the attention span to read.
I should have practiced pranayama or done a few yoga poses to calm myself, but I couldn’t seem to sit down. All I could do was pace like a caged tiger, back and forth, forth and back, thudding my tennis shoes against the wooden floor in a dull, rhythmic cadence. Hopefully being a trapped animal wasn’t my metaphorical future.
I froze.
The police couldn’t think I killed Monica, could they?
I had to admit, from an outsider’s perspective, it didn’t look good. I didn’t like Monica, that was no secret. My fingerprints were all over her belongings, not to mention the murder weapon. I’d even been found yanking on Monica’s water-soaked body.
Oh, crap.
Back to pacing. Back and forth, forth and back.
Ninety panicking, fretting, foot-pounding minutes later, the deputy knocked at the door. “Sergeant Bill’s ready to talk to you now.”
He led me to Emmy’s office, which “Sergeant Bill” had commandeered for a makeshift interview room. Sweat covered my palms and dripped down the back of my neck. I felt like a paranoid teen on her way to the principal’s office. I hadn’t done anything wrong, but I was convinced I’d be sent to detention, nonetheless.
“Have a seat Miss, um …” The man sitting behind Emmy’s desk looked down at his notes.
“Davidson. Kate Davidson.” I hesitated, much too nervous to sit. “I’d rather stand, thank you.”
His eyes met mine. “I said, have a seat, Miss Davidson.” It wasn’t a request.
I sat.
While the sergeant reviewed his notes, I drummed my fingers on the desktop and took stock of my future inquisitor. He was short, no more than five-foot-six, and his pants were held up by a belt approximately two sizes smaller than his doughy middle. His receding hairline accented a large, creased forehead.
Nervousness made me goofy—like a dental patient who had inhaled too much nitrous oxide. I couldn’t suppress a giggle. I was about to be grilled by the sergeant from Gomer Pyle.
He laid down his notebook and scowled across the desk. “Something funny I should know about? Personally, I don’t think murder’s a laughing matter.”
I immediately sobered. “No, of course not.”
“Glad to hear it.” He leaned back and smiled disarmingly. “This should only take a few minutes.”
He pretty much stuck with the basics at first. He told me his name: “Sergeant Bill Molloy, but you can call me Sergeant Bill.” He asked me where I lived, why I was on the island, what I’d done that morning, and how I’d happened to come across Monica’s body. His lilting, almost melodic voice lulled me into a false sense of security.
I conned myself into believing that Sergeant Bill was just a good old boy, looking for the truth. Dad said I should never lie to the cops, so I answered his questions honestly. But I didn’t volunteer any information. My recent altercations with Monica had nothing to do with her murder. Why confuse the issue?
Sergeant Bill took copious notes, nodding and smiling encouragingly. After fifteen rambling minutes, I completed my spiel.
“Well,” he said, closing his notebook and laying down his pen. “I think we’re about done here.”
“You mean I can go?” It couldn’t possibly be this easy. I never got away with anything.
He shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”
Relief washed over me like water in a warm shower. For once, luck and the universe were on my side. I stood up, eased to the door, and rested my hand on the doorknob. Only two more steps and I’d be free. My mind chattered, nervously narrating each action in a silent monologue.
OK, Kate, you’re almost there. Stay calm and don’t blow it. I took a deep breath. Turn the knob to the right. The latch clicked and released. Open the door. The hinges squeaked open; a cool breeze caressed my cheeks. As I glanced through the doorway, the empty hall beckoned me—coaxed me toward freedom.
Step one foot forward, and—
“You know, there’s only one thing I don’t get about your story.”
The melodic lilt in Sergeant Bill’s voice had completely evaporated.
Tension spread from my toes to my scalp. I tried to suppress—or at least camouflage—a mounting sense of panic. I took a deep breath and turned to face him. Sergeant Bill leaned forward, elbows on the desk, fingers laced together. He didn’t look at all friendly.
I forced my lips into a smile and tried to look innocent.
“What’s that?”
“Why is it that six different witnesses say you threatened to strangle the victim this morning?”
Sergeant Bill wasn’t smiling anymore. Then again, neither was I. We stared at each other in silence.
“Why don’t you close that door and sit on back down.”
nine
After that, his questions became significantly more pointed. My answers, more tentative. I knew my Tofurky was cooked when he suggested that we continue our conversation at the police station. My body flashed hot, then cold. I squeezed my arms tight to my body and suppressed the urge to bolt.
“Am I under arrest?”
“No. Not yet.”
At least that was something.
He narrowed his eyes. “Should you be?”
I consciously relaxed my fists and tried not to blink. “No. Definitely not.”
Sergeant Bill’s plastic smile didn’t reach the wrinkles around his eyes. “Well then, there’s no need to make this difficult. All you need to do is come to the station, answer a few more questions, and you’ll be on your way.”
He couldn’t fool me that easily. If nothing else, Dad’s stories had taught me that smart criminals never threw away their rights. “I don’t have to go with you.”
Sergeant Bill shrugged. “That’s true. You don’t. But unless you have something to hide, there’s no reason not to.” He leaned back and jiggled the cuffs on his belt. “I’d hate to come back here with an arrest warrant.”
On the other hand, I wasn’t a criminal. And I didn’t want to act like one.
I should have refused to go anywhere without a lawyer, but I felt oddly compelled to obey. As if by obeying, I could convince Sergeant Bill that I was a good girl—much too good to commit murder.
“OK. Give me the address and I’ll meet you there
.”
He pushed back his chair and thrust the notebook into his pocket. “We’ll drive together.”
Instead of one phone call, he allowed me one stop—at the cabin, to tell Michael where I was headed.
Worry lines creased Michael’s brow. “Kate, don’t say anything. I’ll follow behind and meet you at the station.”
I’m not sure who I was trying to convince: Michael or myself. “I’ll be fine, Michael. The only thing I’m guilty of is trying to save Monica’s life.” I tried to smile, but my stressed-out lips barely curled upward. “Stay here with Bella. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Michael followed us outside. Sergeant Bill opened the door to the back seat of his car and gestured for me to get in.
“Can’t I at least sit in the front?”
“It’s against regulations, Ma’am.” I didn’t argue. Good girls didn’t argue.
The door slammed shut.
The space around me felt suddenly smaller—more claustrophobic. I tried to lengthen my breath, but it refused to comply, remaining shallow and high up in my chest. I wasn’t under arrest, so why did I feel like a prisoner? I reached over to roll down the window.
I couldn’t.
There weren’t any window controls, no door handles, either. I couldn’t even climb to the front seat, unless I figured out how to wedge my body underneath the car’s screened divider.
“It’s kind of lonely back here,” I quipped. “How about some music?”
Sergeant Bill ignored my request and all subsequent attempts at idle chatter. We drove in silence for forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes during which my imagination went wild, listing all of the evidence against me. I almost convinced myself I was guilty.
I’d threatened to kill Monica in front of several witnesses. Twice, if you counted the rat poisoning comment. I was all talk, no action, but no one on Orcas knew that.