A Wrongful Death (4 page)

Norris returned and leaned a split log against the wall near the door. He did not take off his hat, but he shrugged out of a poncho and draped it over a chair where it dripped water. She added her own slicker and jacket. It was wet and her back felt clammy.

"Old man Diedricks built this cabin fifty years ago "Norris said, standing near the stove, warming his hands. "I was a young fellow, just out of the army, and he hired me to help him, cut wood, keep the woods cleared back in case of fire. Going on ninety, I guess. Blind now. Hasn't been here in twelve, thirteen years, but he paid me to keep it ready for him so when he came, he would have wood to burn, have lights to turn on and I guess he never wanted for much more than that. He'd come to get some work done. Said he couldn't stand the commotion all the time up in Portland." He backed away from the stove and sat on one of the upholstered chairs. "Good man, Hank Diedricks. A good man. Won't be coming back, but they pay me to keep it ready, just like he said."

He became silent then and Barbara sat in the other chair as silent as Norris. He had not asked her a single question, and she was content not to initiate any explanation until the sheriff arrived. How much of that unconsciousness had been a sham? she wondered, remembering how the woman had held the boy, had drawn him in close to her. Why hadn't she spoken up? She had been like a dead weight all the way to the cabin, up the steps, none of that had been fake, but when Barbara had wrestled her onto the futon, she had been different. Dazed, certainly, but not the same kind of dead weight. And again, when Barbara pulled off her soaked jeans, she had lifted her hips, helping. Why hadn't she said something?

It was another half hour before she heard a car pull in and stop. Norris got up to open the door and admit two men.

"Curtis Connors, Dwayne Beacham, "he said. "That's Ms. Holloway. She's renting one of my cabins."

They were both in their early fifties, one stout and swarthy, wearing a baseball cap, a fleece jacket and high boots; the other taller and thinner in a lined denim jacket and cowboy hat. They nodded to her and the stout one said, "What's going on here?"

She told them about the boy and finding the woman on the ground. When she finished, Connors asked, "Who was she?"

"No idea. I never met her. I saw them on the beach at a distance twice before today, but we didn't speak, didn't introduce ourselves."

Beacham left to look over the rooms. He returned holding the two toy cars. "Guess there was a kid here, all right," he said. "There's a bloody washcloth in the bathroom."

Connors asked more questions and clearly was not satisfied with her answers. "Why was the kid looking for you if you didn't know them?"

"He wasn't looking for me," Barbara said. "He didn't even see me until I caught up with him. I think he found his mother and was going to go to the village for help. He was terrified."

"He was going to swim over?" Connors said in a mean voice.

"The tide was coming in, but he probably doesn't know a thing about tides. He wouldn't have made it," she added. An image formed of that small figure being overtaken by a wave, swept to sea. In a lower voice she said, "And neither would his mother. She was freezing out there, soaked, unconscious. How long would she have lasted? It would have been a double homicide."

Connors looked disgusted. "No homicide. A cougar probably jumped her, scratched her up some."

"No cougar," Norris said, shaking his head. He went to the door and retrieved the split log he had brought in earlier and held it out to Connors, pointing to some long black hairs caught in the rough cut.

After a pause Connors said, "She's probably an illegal. Had a fight with her boyfriend and when you came he hid out until you left, then he hustled her and the kid into their car and took off."

This time Barbara was shaking her head. "She'd been out there too long, and someone must have taken a computer. Look." She pointed to the computer cable. "And there's a printer cartridge in the wastebasket. There wasn't a computer on that table when I got her inside. I tossed my slicker and my jacket down on that table. No computer. No printer."

Connors had a lot more questions after that, until finally she said, "I've told you everything I can. I didn't see a car. I didn't look for one. I wouldn't have driven out for help anyway because I had no idea where that road would take me. I didn't see a purse, and again, I wasn't looking for one. I was gone at least an hour, more likely an hour and a half, and what she did in that time, I have no idea. I intend to leave now."

Norris stood up. "I'll take her back to the cabin. Be at the house, you have anything else to ask." He was not asking permission to leave any more than she was. He pulled on his poncho, and she put on her jacket and slung the ruined rain slicker over her shoulders, and they left the two deputies in the cabin.

They were both as silent driving back as they had been coming in, until they neared his house. "Cougar!" he said in disgust. "You get in your car and drive on down and I'll follow along and have a look around. Won't nobody get in here tonight without I know it, Ms. Holloway, and won't nobody be coming in by the beach, not on a night like this. Tomorrow, you want to move in closer to the house, number two's empty and ready."

"Thanks," she said. "I'll think about it." But she knew what she would be doing the next day: moving on. Not quite ready to go home yet, no longer wanting the kind of solitude her isolated cabin here offered, it was time to move on.

Chapter 4

The first time Barbara had come to Astoria, she had been ten, and thought this was the end of the world. With the broad Columbia River its northern boundary, and the limit-less Pacific Ocean its western, the town had seemed caught in a time warp — quiet, with picture-book Victorian houses with widows' walks on bluffs, a fishing fleet at old piers or docks, no one in a rush. It might have been unchanged for a hundred years. That week when she got there after an unhurried drive up the coast, she had run out of state. End of the line. Also, she had forgotten that the Lewis and Clark bicentennial celebration was taking place and would be ongoing for months.

Everywhere there were new boutiques, new restaurants, fast-food chains and the town was almost garish with Christmas decorations ablaze with lights. There was even a new long pier. Everyone in town evidently anticipated a rush of tourists to rival the fur rush of the distant past.

Even the wide smooth beach was overrun, she thought with irritation as she walked. A dozen other people were out walking, most of them probably looking for a sunken boat that appeared only at the lowest neap tides, perhaps twice a year.

It wasn't raining, as it had been all along the coast until the day before, but a sharp, steady wind was blowing in and more rain was predicted for the weekend. She paid little attention to the other walkers, and less to the wind, and instead thought of her immediate problem. She had realized that morning, watching the news on television, that she had been gone for six weeks, and that she couldn't keep endlessly wandering, or she would go broke. She might have to get a real job, she had added mockingly. She even had a job offer. In San Francisco she had received an e-mail from an old acquaintance at Reed College. He had called the office, had written her a real letter and e-mail was a last resort, he had said. They wanted her to teach a class for the spring term starting in January, a class in criminal law. The idea was ludicrous, she had thought then. For her to teach idealistic students, soon-to-be attorneys, anything to do with the law had to be a joke.

She had not even decided yet if she would resume her law practice, she thought, scowling. She fingered the note in her pocket. It was getting frayed. Dr. Sanger's question kept repeating in her head — What are you afraid of? She walked faster.

As she approached the parking lot and her car, she scowled deeper at nothing in particular. Where next? It was Thursday, and she didn't want to be in Astoria when the weekend influx of tourists was due. Every weekend now was like the best weekend of summer, a waitress had informed her happily that morning. That time of year, she had gone on, they usually weren't even open during the winter months, but business was very good, even booming.

"Thank you, Captain Lewis, Captain Clark," Barbara muttered to herself. Then she stopped walking and stared. Ahead, leaning against her car was Bailey Novell, wearing his dreadful coat that he claimed made him look like a Sherpa guide, and she thought made him look like a yak. A woolen cap was pulled down almost to his eyes. He straightened up and waved.

"Hiya," he called. "It's freezing out here. Didn't you notice?"

"What in hell are you doing here?" she demanded, drawing closer.

"Waiting for you."

"What's wrong? What happened? Is Dad okay?"

"Nothing, maybe. I don't know. And yes. Your old man said for me to find you and deliver a message. Too important and personal for e-mail. You know how he is."

She knew. Frank believed sending an e-mail was like broadcasting to the world, and possibly he was even right about that.

"What message?"

"If you don't get yourself back to Eugene before Monday morning at nine, the cops are going to put out an APB on you." He rubbed his hands. "Cold. You don't hide very well, you know. I can give you some pointers."

"I haven't been hiding," she snapped. "What does that message mean?" Of course, if Frank told him to find her, he would do it, even if she had been trying to hide. Bailey was maybe the best private detective in America, certainly the best on the west coast. He could find a particular grain of sand on the beach if Frank told him to.

"Don't know what it means more than what it says," he said. "They want you. Accessory to kidnapping, aiding and abetting, miscellaneous criminal activities. It's a two-day drive, foggy down in the valley, unless you run the risk of adding to your criminal activities and get hauled in for speeding or something."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm going to my motel."

"Me, too. Too cold out here. I'll follow along, maybe get a room nearby."

"Bailey, for God's sake, you're not going to shadow me!"

"I got my orders."

He followed her all the way to Salem, where a dense fog made her stop and find a motel. He was there again Saturday morning, and stayed behind her all the way to Eugene. When she entered her apartment early Saturday afternoon, his old green Dodge, as disreputable looking as he was, made a U-turn and drove away.

Her apartment was cold and damp. She lingered only long enough to turn up the heat, then headed for her father's house.

When Frank opened his door, he simply embraced her and held her for a moment, then stepped back and closed the door. Both cats wound in and about her feet as if in greeting.

"Let me take your jacket," Frank said. "Go sit down." He had made a fire, and there was the coffee carafe and cups on a low table. She suspected that Bailey had called in to say mission accomplished. She waited until they were both seated near the fire, coffee had been poured and the cats had each found a lap.

"What was that message all about?" she finally asked.

"I was hoping you'd tell me," he said. "State police are looking for you. Material witness."

"To what, for heaven's sake?"

Frank shrugged. "Seems you got involved with a woman who is being accused of kidnapping a child."

She gave him an incredulous look. "They're out of their minds." But even as she said it, she was thinking of the woman who had been attacked at the cabin just a week before. "For God's sake!" She told him about it. "If that little boy had been kid-napped, I'll sprout wings and take to the air. He was terrified because she was hurt and bleeding. He couldn't wait to get under the blanket with her and be held by her. He called her Mama."

"Family abductions are still abductions," Frank said. "Maybe we'll learn something more on Monday. Howard Janowsky, a state police lieutenant, wants to talk to you. In your office. I told him you would be available there, not up in Salem, or his office in town." He paused a moment, then added, "I'll be there unless you object."

She regarded him even more incredulously. "You think I might need an attorney?"

"Apparently the lieutenant is serious. That cabin belongs to Henry Diedricks, the founder of the Diedricks Corporation. They make replacement joints, hips, limbs, knuckles and they have a great deal of influence in the state. Apparently they've applied pressure to find a missing woman, the ex-wife of a grandson and her child, who would be Diedricks's great-grandson. They seem to believe that the missing ex-wife and the child were in that cabin. The ex-husband in the case is Terence Kurtz, and his father, Diedricks's son-in-law, died recently. The family gathered in Portland for his funeral, but the ex-wife and child were not among the mourners. It may be a matter of inheritance, wills, something of that sort, I don't know. But they want to find her and the child."

It wasn't difficult to talk Barbara into staying for dinner. Chicken and poblano chilies ready to go into the oven had been the clincher. He didn't ask her where she had been. He already knew. When he told Bailey to find her, the report had come back quickly. San Francisco, a week in a cabin owned by Samuel Norris, four days driving up the coast, and then Astoria. It had been a long six weeks. He didn't mention that either, nor did he ask her what she had been doing all that time. She would tell him, or not.

Then, lingering over apple crisp and coffee, she said, "I did a lot of reading on the road, here and there. And even watched quite a bit of television. C-SPAN, some talk shows. I haven't been paying a lot of attention to politics during the past few years, it was time to catch up."

He nodded, and waited silently, understanding that was simply background.

"I guess politicians don't change much, do they? I mean, you see corruption, interest groups, a lot of money being passed around, certain laws being enacted. I don't suppose that's changed over the decades, or even generations, except in scale possibly."

When he still didn't respond, she grinned slightly. "You're playing the wise, old laconic know-it-all, aren't you? Or you're waiting for an opening."