Silent Witness (8 page)

Jennie tried not to think about Scott, concentrating instead on her food, which turned out to be a bad idea. The “hamburger” she thought they were eating turned out to be a concoction of soybeans and vegetables. It didn't taste too bad, as long as she used plenty of lettuce, tomatoes, onions, mayo, and ketchup—and if she kept her mind off what she was eating.

Fortunately, the Laytons and Sarah arrived, and Jennie was able to push Scott and the phony meat out of her mind. Maggie and Carl settled Sarah between them. When Jennie and Gram asked about Sarah, Carl reassured them. “She got a little cut on her arm, probably from the fence, but other than that she's fine.”

“Speaking of cuts,” Debbie said, “that's a nasty one on your arm. What happened?”

Carl seemed surprised, then rotated his arm so he could see the cut and frowned. A four-inch long, blood-caked gash ran from his elbow to about the middle of his forearm. “Must have scratched it while I was unpacking the rental car. Doesn't look too serious,” he added. “A little soap and water ought to take care of it.” He shook his head and grinned. “Talk about the absentminded professor. I didn't even realize it was there.”

“You'd better come over to the office after dinner,” Ken said. “We have a first-aid station there. I'd like to take a look at it—clean it up and make sure it doesn't need a stitch or two.”

Carl nodded, then asked Debbie how she got started with dolphin therapy. From then on, with all their psychological jargon, they might as well have been speaking Swahili. Jennie switched her attention to Gram and Maggie, who were discussing writing, Gram's favorite topic.

She waited for a break in the conversation and asked a question that had been on her mind since the Laytons had arrived. “Where is Tim?”

Maggie flushed and shifted in her chair. “He's staying in town. He dropped us off here and left, probably too ashamed to face everyone after all the awful things he said.”

“Do you think he'll really try to close down the center?”

It was Carl, not Maggie, who answered Jennie's question. “Not if we have anything to say about it.” He wrapped an arm around Sarah's shoulders. “And we'll even continue Sarah's therapy. Naturally I'm concerned about what happened today, but after hearing about the success this program has had, we'd like to give Debbie more time.”

When they'd finished dinner, Carl surprised Jennie by asking her if she'd like to take Sarah for a walk.

“But …”Jennie began.

“It's all right.” Carl lightly touched her shoulder, his kind blue eyes meeting hers. “Maggie told me about Tim's rampage. I've assured both him and Maggie that interacting with others, especially young people, is exactly what Sarah needs. Go ahead.”

Jennie took Sarah's hand and led her out of the dining hall, taking the same path she and Scott had taken the night before. “It's safe to talk now,” Jennie said as she dropped to the ground. “No one can hear.”

Sarah didn't answer, and Jennie wondered if the incident with Delilah had set her back. Jennie pulled off her sandals and wiggled her feet in the fine white grains.

“Thanks for not telling,” Sarah said.

“I told you I wouldn't.”

“I know …” Sarah glanced behind them.

“Why are you pretending? Don't you think you should at least tell your mom?”

“I can't. I can't tell anyone.”

“Why not?”

“I know who killed my father.”

“Then you need to tell the police.”

“It's not that easy.” Sarah pointed to her head. “It's all in here, but I can't find it. I get these nightmares and flashbacks. I remember being there when Dad was killed. I didn't see who did it, but … maybe I'd better start over.” Sarah folded her arms and rubbed them as though she were cold. “A few months ago I woke up in the middle of the night, and I'd come back.”

“Come back?”

“I know that sounds strange, but after Dad got killed, I felt like I was floating through a long tunnel.”

“Your mom said you were sick for a long time.”

Sarah nodded. “It was like being alive and dead all at the same time. Anyway, one night I woke up and I was alive—at least part of me was.”

“I don't think I understand.”

“I'm not sure I do either. Sometimes it's like I'm two different people. There's me, Sarah, a fourteen-year-old, who's working like crazy to make everyone believe I'm still sick, and trying to remember who shot my father before …” Sarah shuddered, “… before the killer figures out I'm faking it and kills me too. Then, there's the girl in my flashbacks.”

“Wait a minute. What's all this flashback stuff? You sound like a psychiatrist.”

Sarah shrugged. “You don't spend fourteen years around psychiatrists and not learn something. Besides, when I came back, I started reading Dad's books. Mom and Carl think it's an object-relations thing—that I need to have something of Dad's close to me—but I've been trying to figure out how to unlock little Sarah so she can tell me what happened.”

“Little Sarah?”
You are dealing with a certified nut case, McGrady.
Jennie leaned back to study the girl.

“That's what I call the girl in my memory.” Sarah glanced at Jennie and flinched. “Don't look at me that way. I'm not crazy. I know she's me. It's just easier to handle the flashbacks if I give her a name and keep her separate—at least for now.

“I first saw her that night, when I came back. I started to call to my mother and Carl, but something inside me panicked. A picture flashed through my mind. It was real, but it wasn't—kind of like a movie. Anyway, I closed my eyes, but the picture wouldn't go away. The girl was sitting in Daddy's chair writing a note. The pencil fell, and she crawled under the desk to get it. Then she heard an explosion, and everything turned red, then black. I could still see little Sarah, hiding under my father's desk, crying. She kept saying, ‘No. Don't tell. You must never tell.' Little Sarah knows everything. She knows who killed my father.”

Jennie had absolutely no experience in dealing with mental cases and had no intention of starting now. “I think we should talk to my grandmother.”

“No.” Sarah grabbed Jennie's arm. “Please. You said you wanted to help me. I need to remember who killed my dad.”

“What about this Ramsey guy?”

“Ramsey didn't kill my father.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I was there. I just know. It was someone else …” Jennie heard a rustling noise in the shrubs behind them. “Shh …listen.” The sound, whatever it was, had stopped. “Probably just an animal,” Jennie whispered.

The noise had frightened Sarah back into her silent world. Having Sarah switch back and forth like that was spooky. Jennie had seen a couple of movies about people with multiple personality disorders. Could that be what had happened to Sarah? If so, could she believe anything the girl said?

“I'm going to take you back now,” Jennie said as she stood and offered Sarah a hand up. “I know I promised I wouldn't tell, but you need more help than I can give you. I'm going to tell Gram. You can trust her. It will be all right, Sarah. It really will.”

Jennie took Sarah back to the compound and handed her over to Carl, who was just coming to find them. “I appreciate your willingness to sit with Sarah,” he said. “Not many young people would. It's difficult to carry on a one-sided conversation.”

“It's no trouble,” Jennie said. “Maybe someday she'll start talking back.”

“That's what we're hoping.” Carl took Sarah's hand and started up the path. “Oh, by the way, your grandmother said to tell you she'd be back in about an hour. She and Maggie went over to Sanibel to pick up a few things.''

It took all the strength Jennie had not to run after Carl.
Sarah is talking
, she wanted to shout.
Only she's saying the strangest things and I'm scared and I think you ought to take her to a shrink.
That part was strange too, Jennie realized. Sarah was seeing a shrink—three of them, in fact. Between Debbie, Carl, and Sarah's regular therapist, they should have been able to see what was going on. Shouldn't they?

The one thing Jennie knew for certain was that she had to tell Gram about Sarah. Gram would know what to do. While she waited for Gram to return, Jennie wandered into the dining hall, shot a little pool, then wound around the paths and went back out on the beach behind the cabins.
Just killing time
, she told herself.
Liar
, her pesky conscience argued.
You're looking for Scott.
Jennie picked up a rock and flung it as hard as she could.
Great shot, McGrady.
It thumped into the sand about five feet away. She gave the rock a disgusted look, picked the thing up, and threw it again. This time it sailed an acceptable distance and disappeared into the water.

Nearly an hour had passed since she'd talked to Carl, so Jennie made her way back to the cabin to wait for Gram. She'd just opened the patio door when the phone inside the room rang. Jennie hurried over to answer it.

“Oh, hi, Gram. What's going on?”

“We're running a little late and I didn't want you to worry.”

Jennie could hardly hear her over the music playing in the background. “Where are you?”

Gram laughed. “Would you believe there's an art fair in town? Turns out that Maggie loves these as much as I do.”

“That's great.” Jennie had to work at trying to sound as though it didn't matter. She must not have succeeded because in the next breath Gram said, “You sound upset. Is everything okay there?”

“Yes, I just wanted to talk to you about Sarah. It'll keep until morning. Have a good time.”

Jennie hung up, fixed a cup of peppermint tea, and plodded upstairs. Disappointment settled around her like a black cloud. It had been a bizarre day, and she wanted Gram to help her sort through it all. “Debriefing,” Gram called it. She could call Lisa, but that would mean going back downstairs, and Jennie didn't have the energy for that. Instead she climbed into bed, pulled out her diary and wrote a letter to her father.

Thirty minutes later she turned out the light and snuggled under the sheet and lightweight blanket. “God,” she murmured. “Help me to know what to do for Sarah. Please let her remember …” and at the risk of sounding just as crazy as Sarah had, she added, “and help little Sarah not to be afraid. Keep them both safe.”

Jennie fell asleep thinking not of Sarah, but of little Jennie, who held so tightly to the belief that Dad was still alive.

The next day Jennie fully intended to tell Gram about Sarah, but at six that morning, Samson brought Delilah back home. Everyone in the compound gathered on the docks to watch Ken, Debbie, and two of the other trainers slip Delilah into a specially-made stretcher for dolphins. They maneuvered her through the water into an enclosed tank where they could more easily care for her.

“Is she going to make it?” Jennie asked. Her question hung in the silence. It was a question, Jennie realized, that no one could answer.

Over the next couple of hours so many people invaded the small island, Jennie wondered if it might sink. Reporters, along with other researchers, marine biologists, environmentalists, friends, and enemies came to get what they hoped would be a big story, to help or to criticize. Melissa, Scott's friend from the DPA, swooped in with a small band of demonstrators, reminding Jennie of a flock of vultures. They'd already prepared protest signs and flyers, and Jennie couldn't help but wonder how they'd been able to put them together so quickly. She tried not to come to the obvious conclusion—that Scott had somehow been involved or may even have been the cause.

At ten A.M., Ken emerged from the tank and briefed them. “She's dead. She was badly air burned and dehydrated. We did everything we could.”

“Any idea what caused this, Mr. Cole?” a reporter asked, pushing a microphone at Ken.

“I'm afraid I do. The autopsy will show for certain, but I found traces of methamphetamine hydrochloride in Delilah's feeding pail.”

“That's speed, isn't it?” Melissa asked. “Are you telling us this dolphin was drugged?”

For the next few seconds the dock was so quiet you could hear the boards breathe. Then the crowd erupted, spewing questions and hurling insults. Jennie looked around for Gram and saw her up front with Debbie and Ken, probably trying to create order out of chaos. Feeling about as useless as a third shoe, Jennie pressed through the wall of bodies and headed toward the dining hall. At first she thought it was empty, then saw Sarah sitting in a chair, staring out the window.

Jennie hurried toward her. “What are you doing here alone?” She'd spoken softly, but in the large room it still seemed too loud.

“They figured I'd be safe enough here,” Sarah whispered. “They're down on the dock with the others.”

“Did you hear about Delilah?”

Sarah looked up at Jennie briefly, then continued to stare straight ahead. “It's my fault,” she said softly, her lips barely moving. “If I'd told them I was better, Delilah would be alive.”

“Don't be silly. This had nothing to do with you.”

“You're wrong, Jennie. The person who did this to Delilah either wanted to stop the therapy, or wanted to use Delilah to kill me. Why else would anyone hurt a dolphin?”

Voices filled the room as dozens of people poured into it. Carl and Maggie came back to collect Sarah, and Jennie escaped to the cabin. Gram was in her element—interviewing, collecting information, and researching. She probably wouldn't surface until the last bit of information had been squeezed out of everyone there. Over a fruit and cheese snack, Jennie tried to decide what she should do while she waited for Gram to come back.
You could lie around feeling depressed. Or you could keep racking your brain to figure out what's going on.

On impulse Jennie suited up, stuffed a book, a towel, some sunscreen, a candy bar, and chips—which Gram had smuggled in the night before—into a bag and headed for the beach. At the door she paused, went back inside, and left Gram a note.

After spreading out her towel, Jennie mentally pulled up all of her unanswered questions and worries and tossed them one by one into the ocean. Then, after applying sunscreen, she stretched out on the towel and immersed herself in another kind of mystery—one that would be solved by the end of the book.

It was always the least likely person. Jennie shifted her focus from the novel to real life—who killed Delilah? Was it Tim Stanford? Tim was obviously against having Sarah in the program. But that in itself wouldn't be motive enough to kill a dolphin. And Jennie didn't think he'd harm Sarah, unless … unless he was trying to keep her from remembering who killed her father. Or was it Scott and his team of environmental extremists?
No, think “least likely,” McGrady … how about Debbie and Ken … or Maggie or Carl …
 “Oh, no you don't,” Jennie muttered. “The next thing you know, you'll be suspecting
Gram. Now read.”

Sometime later, Jennie set the book aside. The girl in the story reminded Jennie a lot of herself. She looked at the cover depicting the eyes of a murderer peering through some bushes, and shuddered. Winnie, the heroine in the book, had decided to solve her friend's murder. The murderer turned out to be the guy who'd been working on the case with her. Scary stuff.

A lot of mysteries were like that. The killer was often someone close, a family member or friend. And they always have a motive.
Why else would anyone want to kill a dolphin?
Sarah had asked. That's what Jennie intended to find out. Resolutely, she gathered up her things and wandered back to the cabin.

“There you are.” Gram had a worried look, and Jennie didn't think it was for her. “I was about to come looking for you.”

“Did something happen? Is everything okay?”

“I'm not sure,” she said, handing Jennie a note. “I found this stuck in the door when I came in.”

Jennie,

I've got something to tell you about Delilah. Meet me at the lighthouse on Sanibel at eight-thirty tonight. Scott.

Jennie looked up from the note. “What should I do?”

“I suggest we meet him.” She glanced at her watch.

“In the meantime you'd best get dressed. Ken has called in the police to investigate. I've already given my statement, and you'll have just enough time before dinner to talk to them.”

The “them” turned out to be Detective Angel Delaney, who Jennie decided had no resemblance whatever to any angel she'd ever imagined. Angel's dark hair had been casually swept up and clasped in a wide leather barrette.

She wore a don't-mess-with-me expression, and for a moment Jennie thought Angel and Tim Stanford would have made a perfect couple. From her stance and the questions she asked, Jennie had the distinct impression Angel had better things to do with her time than go after a dolphin killer.

“All right, Miss McGrady,” Angel said, her pen poised above a small notebook. “Tell me what happened … and try to keep it short.”

With Gram at her side, Jennie related the incident as best as she could, being careful not to mention Scott or the fact that Sarah could talk. She did, however, suggest that Delilah's death might be connected to John Stanford's murder. Angel raised her eyebrows. “What do we have here, a budding detective?” She looked at Gram and for the first time since Jennie had met her, smiled. “Teaching her the tricks of the trade, Ms. McGrady?”

Gram winked at Jennie and smiled. “She learns quickly. As I mentioned before, the fact that Sarah was in the water with the dolphin may be more than coincidence.”

“Right. Well, if it will make you feel better, I'll check it out. But I wouldn't hold my breath. My bet's on the kid who disappeared yesterday.” She flipped back a few pages in her notes and added, “Yeah, here it is, Scott Chambers. Which reminds me,” she added, scrutinizing Jennie. “You didn't mention him. Any particular reason why?”

Jennie looked at Gram, who nodded. Reluctantly, she told Angel about the phone call and other things she remembered Scott saying. She finished with, “Scott wouldn't kill a dolphin. I just can't believe that of him.” After Angel left, Gram suggested they have dinner in town before meeting Scott. On the drive into town it occurred to both of them that they'd neglected to tell Angel about the note Scott had left. “It's probably just as well,” Gram said. “This will give us a chance to hear his side … and if he is involved, encourage him to go to the police.”

Jennie took advantage of their time alone to tell Gram about Sarah. “She scares me,” Jennie said when she'd finished. “She really believes whoever killed her father is after her too.” Jennie sighed. “Sarah asked me not to tell, but I had to. I don't know what to do for her.”

“You did the right thing coming to me. Obviously she's convinced herself that she's in terrible danger. It seems to me we have basically two possibilities. Either she's built up this fear in her mind, or it's real. Either Ramsey killed John Stanford or he didn't. And if he didn't, the real killer would want to be sure Sarah couldn't make a positive identification. What I don't understand is why the killer, if it wasn't Ramsey, would wait so long.”

Jennie leaned her head back against the seat and sighed. “Maybe since she was so sick, the killer didn't feel threatened. Or maybe he didn't want to kill her, but now that she's better …”

“I thought you and I were the only people who knew she was better.”

“I'm not so sure about that. It doesn't seem like she'd be able to pull off an act like that without somebody figuring it out. I had a feeling something wasn't right the first time I saw her. She's got to have made some mistakes. Sarah told me she reads her father's books a lot. Wouldn't that make you suspicious?”

“You're right. It would be hard to live with a person and not be aware of changes, no matter how subtle.”

“Then, it makes sense,” Jennie interrupted. “The person who killed John Stanford could be after Sarah and could have killed Delilah.”

“Like Angel says, it's doubtful, but worth checking into. By the way, I got the information J. B. sent on the Stanford murder in the mail today. What with all the excitement, I didn't get a chance to study it. We'll take a look when we get back from our meeting with Scott.”

Gram maneuvered the car into a small parking lot on Captiva at a restaurant called the Mucky Duck. “The Mucky Duck?” Jennie grimaced.

Gram chuckled. “Maggie recommended it … says the food's great.”

“Whatever, as long as they have french fries and real meat in their hamburgers, I'll be happy.” Not only did they have the real thing, Jennie learned, they served large portions of it.

Gram insisted they talk about more pleasant topics over dinner than murder, and Jennie reluctantly acquiesced. A little later, she was glad for the change. Jennie enjoyed dealing with safe subjects like school, friends, and plans for the future. For the first time ever, Jennie voiced her thoughts about studying law. Maybe become a police detective, a lawyer, or a federal agent.

“Aren't you going to try and talk me out of it?” Jennie asked. “Mom would.”

“Yes, I suppose she would. I tried to dissuade your father, but it didn't work. He wanted to follow in his father's footsteps as well.” Gram stopped to clear her throat. When she looked up there were tears in her eyes. She blotted them away. “I just hope you base your decision on what you want, not what you think your father would have wanted.”

After dinner they drove to Sanibel. The lighthouse, a historical landmark, stood at the east end of the island and it took them almost half an hour to get there. By the time they reached the lighthouse area and parked, it was eight-thirty-five. The sky had turned a dusky rose. In another twenty minutes it would be completely dark.

They walked to the lighthouse and wandered around the surrounding area. No Scott. After waiting fifteen minutes, Jennie said, “I don't think he's coming.”

“Perhaps he's been delayed. We'll wait until nine, then we'd better head back to the research center.”

At Jennie's insistence, they waited until quarter after nine. On their drive back to Dolphin Island, Jennie wasn't sure whether to be angry or worried. Why had he asked them to meet him and not shown up? Had something happened to him? She rested her head against the seat and closed her eyes. Questions and concerns about Scott swirled through her mind. She gave up trying to sift through them, choosing instead to pray for him.

“We're almost there, Jennie,” Gram told her when they reached the bridge to Dolphin Island. “Were you sleeping?”

“No.” She yawned. “Just resting.” Jennie lifted her arm to shield her eyes from the glaring lights of the vehicle coming up behind them.

“Hold on!” Gram yelled the warning only a split­second before the impact. Jennie's head snapped forward, then back against the seat. Their convertible swerved and bounced against the concrete guardrail.

“What's going on?” She braced her hands against the dash.

The headlights dropped back, then raced toward them again. Gram gripped the wheel and pressed her foot to the floorboard. “I'm going to try to outrun him.”

“He's gaining on us.” The words had barely escaped her lips when the vehicle bore down on them again. This time the phantom driver connected with such force, the rental car careened out of control, slammed into the side of the bridge, and flipped. Their car hung on the railing for an instant, then plunged toward the deep, dark water below.