Eine Kleine Murder (25 page)

“Oh shit. Not you,” I whispered.

Wayne grabbed Al's phone and threw it. I ran. He snatched the strap of my shoulder bag. Whipped me around. I slipped my shoulder out of the strap. Evaded his grasping hands. And ran. He flung my purse to the ground and took off after me.

No one was around.

“Al!” I screamed, but he didn't appear.

Wayne wasn't carrying a weapon as far as I could see, but he looked mad enough to kill me with his bare hands. He was between me and Al's place, so I instinctively ran toward my own cabin.

But what sort of shelter could it offer? The front door can easily be burst open from the outside. It swings inward. It only locks by the doorknob. There's a deadbolt on the porch door, but not on the front one.

My thoughts were going a hundred miles an hour.

My flying footsteps swerved around the cabin. I pounded down the earthen stairs. I made better time in my loafers than I would have in sandals, but sneakers would have been best.
What a stupid thing to think about at a moment like this
!

Wayne was losing ground. He wasn't sober and ran clumsily. As I reached the bottom of the steps I looked up and saw Wayne, unsteady, picking his way down. I ran out onto the dock. Knocked one of the loose boards off into the water with a splash. Slipped the loop of rope off the post. Shoved the boat off with a loud grunt.

I jumped into it, grabbed the oars, pushed one of them against the dock, then rowed as hard as I ever had. I was a good twenty feet into the water by the time he got down the hill and reached the dock.

He stood glowering at me for a few minutes, made up his mind to do something, and started back up the steps.

My mouth was dry from panting. The rough oars shredded the skin off my fingers. But I kept rowing until I was in the middle of the lake.

Please, Daryl. Please realize I'm in trouble. What did I say just before Wayne took my phone? I don't remember what I said. I should have screamed.

“Please, Daryl,” I whispered over and over, my mouth parched with fear.

Chapter 44

Allargando: Slowing down, usually accompanied by a crescendo
at a climax (Ital.)
Al Fine: To the end (also Ital.)

I listened, trembling, to the soft trickling of the trail left by the oars that I had tipped into the boat—I had nowhere except the middle of the lake to go, and I was already there—and pictured the look on Wayne's face when I had turned to see who was behind me.

I'm sure he heard what I was saying on the cell phone. I couldn't have indicated more clearly that I think Wayne or Sheila killed Toombs if I had written it with a sky plane. What an unfortunate place to pick for my conversation, right outside his trailer. Just because I wanted to see what that shiny dime was.

The look on his face had been pure anger. No, anger
and
hatred. He was so very strong when he grabbed the phone from me. I had tried to hang onto it. Then he jerked me almost off my feet when he took my purse from me. I imagined those hands, strong from years of manual labor, around my neck. My rough shudder shook the whole boat and the oarlocks jingled, sounding like a mockery of a death knell.

What if he gets a boat and catches up with me? What if he tips my boat? I haven't gotten around to digging out a life vest yet. I don't want to sink into this water again.

My bizarre logic was that, if I died out on the lake with a life vest on, at least my body would be recovered right away.

My breathing slowed so that a small, distant, buzzing sound intruded upon my thoughts. I stared at the bend in the lake, where the sound was coming from, frozen, until I saw a boat appear in the distance. It drew closer and closer, its trolling motor sounding more and more distinct, skimming through the water toward the spot where my boat floated idly, as if in slow motion. I could see it was Al Harmon's boat, and Wayne Weldon was in the back with one hand on the rudder, his plaid elbow cocked in the air, steering straight toward me.

I couldn't move.
Where can I go? How can I outrun an outboard motor with oars? Well, I will have to try.

His motor was small, a trolling motor, the only kind allowed on the lake. I had no idea what my chances were, but they were the only ones I had. I jerked the oars up. Jabbed them into the water. Started pulling.

My mind swung into action. I waited until he was fairly close, thinking I could use his proximity to my advantage. I would try to cut back past him, heading in the direction he came from. As close as he was, it would take him awhile to switch directions to cut me off, using the motor. From farther out, it would be easier for him to swing over into my path and intercept me, so I had to wait until he drew nearer.

When I had steered my craft onto a path perpendicular to his, I plunged my right oar deep into the water and pulled with my left, twice, hard. It was easier to turn sharply with oars than it was with a motor.

I pulled, the oars making great watery plunks, heading back past him. He reached the spot where I had been and started making a wide arc, as I knew he would have to, skidding through the water, the motor churning, whining.

I had a good thirty-five or forty feet on him by the time he was headed in my direction. I decided to make for the boat docks past the beach area. Maybe Hayley or Mo, if one of them was at the yellow house, would notice my plight. Or maybe Al Harmon would. If I made it to shore ahead of Wayne, I could run to Al's cabin. I should have gone there in the first place, I realized, quite a bit too late. Or should I have gone to Martha's where there was a phone? Assuming anyone was there.

No, the house was still taped as a crime scene and was probably locked up. I knew Al was home. That's where I should head.
Good, I have a plan.
It didn't make me feel much better, though.

I made it around the bend and lost sight of Wayne. My aching arms quaked from my efforts, making the oars shiver as I drew them through the water. Over. And over. And over. My hands would soon be rubbed raw. I sat facing the rear of the boat as I rowed, which meant I'd be able to see Wayne as he appeared around the bend.

I'm not near enough to the docks yet. I have to go faster.

I pulled still harder, my breath ragged. I hardly noticed the tears joining the slick sweat on my face. I managed enough breath to yell for help, but my calls were met with echoes, then silence. No one was in sight.

The buzz of the motor crescendoed through the stillness. He closed on me and there was nothing I could do about it.

In horrible fascination, I watched as Wayne easily pulled up beside me, Al Harmon's little motor whining at top speed. He cut the motor before he reached me. A sudden quiet fell as his boat drifted next to mine and tiny sucking waves lapped between the boats. My breathing rasped loudly in my ears and my head and heart were pounding in asynchronous rhythm, as though my heart had moved into my eardrums.

Wayne lunged for the side of my boat, but I poled away with a jab of my oar.

He glared at me, malevolence shooting from his narrowed eyes, then stood and sprang. He was too far away, but he managed to grab the side as he hit the water and went under, tipping my boat upside down. Had he been taller, he might have made it into the boat.

I was catapulted over the side and plunked into the lake at the bow of Wayne's boat. I reached up and grasped it, treading water, and looked around. There was my boat, floating turtle fashion, but Wayne was nowhere to be seen.

Now I was doubly grateful I had worn my loafers today. I kicked them off in the water and found it much easier to stay afloat.

Goodbye loafers, I thought, inanely. A hysterical laugh exploded from my throat, sounding more like a sob.

I peered downward, trying to see Wayne, spitting the fishy-tasting stuff back where it came from, but it was too murky to see more than a few inches.

Should I try to get into Wayne's boat? I don't think I can without tipping it over, too. Should I swim for shore?

Exhausted, I didn't know if I could do that either. I reached into Wayne's boat, Al's boat really, and pulled out one of the oars. The oar lock rattled off the end of the shaft and slipped into the water.

I guess I owe Al Harmon an oar lock. I hope I live to pay him back.

I wanted to use the oar to help me stay afloat while I made for the shore. With despair, I saw I was a long way out.

But it was my only chance. So I started kicking my feet, thrusting the oar in front of me.

My feet stopped. They were caught. I was dragged under, but kept hold of the oar.

I saw, through the thick brown water, Wayne clutching my legs. I tried to kick free. Couldn't. He had to let go and come up for air sometime, didn't he?

At that moment I wanted to kill Wayne Weldon. He deserved to die. He could take the punishment for everything that had gone wrong since I came to Crescent Lake.

With a mighty spurt of adrenaline I kicked free and tried to whack him on the head with the oar. Damn! It was heavier than I thought. It was light when it floated, but, treading water, it was all I could do to lift it above the surface of the lake a couple of inches.

“What are you trying to do, you bastard?” I screamed.

“Get rid of you. What do you think, you goddamn bitch?” he sneered. He didn't seem as drunk as he had.

“It wouldn't be a good idea, idiot. I know you used the tractor to carry his body. And you hid the cushion in the bushes.”

“Do you have it? Where?”

He thinks I have it? Is that a good thing?

“It's in my cabin.”

We both gasped as we shouted at each other and splashed our hands in front of us to stay afloat.

“Good. When they go through your things after you're dead they'll find it. They'll assume it was you who murdered Al Toombs. Why would you put it in your cabin, stupid girl?”

Good question. That didn't scare him. It wasn't good to tell him it's in my cabin. Maybe I'm the idiot, not him. But if I'm going to die here, he's coming with me. I swear to God.

He grimaced, sucked in a mouthful of air and dived under for my legs again. I filled my lungs before he pulled me back under.

Hunh. I realized I hadn't panicked and gulped in water this time. I had other things to panic about.

He'll have to come back up for air again. He can't drown me from beneath me without drowning himself.

I fought terror as I was pulled farther and farther down into those dark depths. I lost my grip on the oar and it jumped up toward the distant sunlit surface. I tried to use my arms to counteract Wayne's weight and propel myself toward the top. My tired arms pushed the water as hard as they had pushed the oars, but it was no use.

Think,
I lectured myself sternly.
He's going to need air soon. Then what?

I was ready this time. As soon as his grip loosened, I kicked myself up, but not straight up. I tried to go at an angle—I still had enough breath left—so I would surface far from where he would.

The light was dim. An ocean of water between me and the surface. Lungs cried for air.

Maybe I don't have enough oxygen left, after all.

I kicked harder. Cupped my poor blistered hands. Pushed the water down. Daylight approached, the surface neared.

Kick, stroke, kick, stroke.

At last I burst forth into the sweet air and filled my burning lungs, looking around to see where I was.

I had done what I wanted to do. I had even judged the direction right when I was underwater. Wayne was still in the middle of the lake and I had come at least twenty feet closer to shore. I swam exultantly, as though I were fresh. It didn't matter that I had no breath, that I had no strength, I swam as though I did.

Wayne came after me. Halfway to shore he started yelling hysterically.

“You can't get away! I'll get you eventually! Sheila will help me! You're not going to tell anyone about us! You can't tell anyone!”

I forced down the delirious laughter welling in my throat; I had to concentrate on swimming.

Keep yelling. The louder you yell, the less energy you'll have for swimming.
I kept quiet and kept stroking.
Thank you, Gram. Thank you for keeping after me until I could swim.

“He deserved it,” Wayne kept shouting. “He was gonna fire us. He bragged about taking care of Sheila's father. Fixed his wagon, he said.”

By killing the man's wife and breaking his heart.
I swam toward the still-distant shore, then realized I was closer to the diving deck that stood in the middle of the lake.

I changed direction and headed for it, giving quick glances behind me to make sure I knew where Wayne was. I wasn't certain I could make it to shore, but knew I could make it to the deck. He was falling behind. I was a strong swimmer and younger than Wayne, and he had been drunk when the chase started. He had sobered up quite a bit, but he wasn't gaining on me.

I reached the deck well ahead of Wayne, grabbed the ladder, and rested my aching arms, legs, and lungs. Could I possibly keep going?

As the pounding in my head subsided somewhat, I was able to hear the splashing of Wayne swimming toward me. I swiveled my head. Fear.

He's almost on me! Too long—I've rested too long.

Summoning strength I didn't know I had, I scrambled up the ladder. I stood at the top of the ladder, ready to push him off it as he reached for the top. I kicked viciously at his knotty knuckles as they came into view on the rung above the level of the deck, but his grip was iron and I was barefoot. His hands didn't loosen. His body must have been pumping as much adrenaline as mine. I searched the shore, but the beach was deserted. I gave a shout anyway. No answer.

I bent down and pried his fingers off the rung. His look of surprise probably mirrored my face. Neither of us would have predicted my hands were stronger than his.

He slid back into the water.

I hope I've recovered my breath enough to make it to the shore. I have rested and he hasn't. That's one good thing.

I took a run and jumped in without thinking of my fear of being underwater.

It occurred to me that finding a dime was probably
not
a good thing, in spite of most dimes being lucky.

I kept imagining I felt the start of the sudden downward pull of Wayne grabbing my legs every time a weed brushed against me, so I thought I'd better check to see where he was.

I despaired to see he wasn't far behind and was headed right for me.

He started shouting again between his rasping breaths.

“He killed Sheila's mother! He set that fire. I killed Toombs and I killed Martha and I can kill you. You would have killed him, too, you know. Anybody would of.”

On shore, people were running down the steps from the Toombs place, out onto their boat dock. Daryl was there, and Chief Bailey from Alpha and Sheriff Dobson from Cambridge, his shock of snowy hair glowing in the sunlight beside Daryl's auburn head. Finally! Daryl unhitched the paddleboat, the only craft that was floating at Toombs's dock, and started pedaling it toward me. Chief Bailey had taken a boat from the docks on the other side of the beach. Sheriff Dobson helped him shove it into the water and two other men jumped in.

I didn't dare turn my head again in Daryl's direction, but I could hear the slap of the paddleboat approaching. Two uniformed troopers were also coming toward us in the motorboat Chief Bailey had found. Wayne didn't even hear.

His face distorted with hideous anger, he made one last lunge, caught my hair, and dragged me under one more time.

The last time. I swear.

I twisted until I was facing him—my hair ripping out—and wrapped my fingers around his neck. His nasty expression turned to surprise. We both popped up above the water, but I didn't let go. His hands were strong, but after years of playing piano for hours every day, so were mine. He flailed, tried to pry my fingers off his throat, then his eyes rolled back.