The Last Resort (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (30 page)

“Go,” he said shrilly. “It’s okay. Just go.”

So I went. And Wayne came after me. I stomped angrily out of the Orange Blossom building into the dark. Why were Craig and Wayne arguing? It was my decision whom to love. Whom to marry. I could hear Wayne following me silently down the dirt path. I knew if I turned to him he would tell me he was sorry. And I would probably forgive him. But I wasn’t ready yet. I needed to walk off my anger. After fifteen minutes of random stomping I realized I was lost. I could just see the brick structure I was approaching in the moonlight. It was the mud bath where Craig had found Suzanne.

I heard a low groan and stopped short, my muscles tensing. Had I conjured up Suzanne’s ghost? I turned to Wayne, suddenly glad he was there. But he was already running past me. It was then that I realized it wasn’t a ghost I had heard. I sprinted after Wayne, circling the brick wall. The yellow tape that had blocked off the opening of the mud bath lay on the ground, cut into pieces.

I peered past Wayne, down into the mud bath and saw a body sprawled on its side. Oh God, I thought. Please, not another dead body. Then the body moved.

WITH ANOTHER GROAN, the body heaved itself on its back. Then it lay still, settling only a few inches into the surface of the mud. The mud didn’t look very deep, contained by a sunken enclosure not much bigger than an ordinary bathroom tub. A flat tiled edge ran around the rim of the bath, butting up against the surrounding brick wall.

Thank God for peat moss, I thought, remembering Fran’s boast about the superior density of the spa’s mud baths. Whoever’s body it was, it was alive, sprawled out on the top of the mud, like a drunk on an overly soft sofa. The body looked almost comfortable, except for its legs, which were twisted up at an unnatural angle onto the tiled edge. A faintly sulfurous odor emanated from the mud. I shivered, sweating in the cool night air.

“Don’t know if we should try to move him,” Wayne’s low voice whispered in my ear. I looked at his anxious face and shook my head helplessly. Didn’t safety courses tell you not to move an accident victim? Frantically, I tried to remember my first-aid rules as Wayne stepped down onto the tiled stairs that led into the mud.

When Wayne’s foot hit the mud-smeared stair it made a slurping sound that sent me into another panic. In my adrenaline-fried brain the mud sounded like quicksand. I moved quickly through the opening into the bath, ready to haul him out if the mud sucked him in.

Wayne took another slurping step down. I reminded myself it was only mud. But I stepped onto the edge of the bath, at the top of the stairs, just in case. From that vantage point I looked down and recognized the body sprawled on its back. It was Eli Rosen, now a ghostly moonlit collage of mud-smeared flesh, hair and cloth. His glasses were gone. And his eyes were closed. Was he even breathing?

“Eli!” I called out loudly, suddenly afraid that he was dead after all. Or dying.

He groaned again, the sound echoing eerily in the brick enclosed bath. But his eyes remained closed.

Wayne squatted down and touched Eli’s twisted leg carefully. He shook his head hopelessly.

“Eli!” I called again, even louder this time.

Eli’s mud-smeared eyelids pulled up slowly. His eyes were unfocused beneath them.

“
Wo bin ich
?” he murmured softly.

“What?” I answered. Was he speaking English?

“
Ach du Scheisse
,” he rasped. Definitely not English. But he was talking. He was alive.

Wayne climbed back out of the bath carefully. Then he walked around the edge of the bath like a tightrope walker. When he reached the spot on the edge closest to Eli’s head, he squatted down again and put his hand on Eli’s chest.

“Breathing’s okay,” he whispered. “Can’t see any bleeding either.”

Eli’s eyes focused on Wayne’s face above him for a moment. “Something around my neck,” he rasped. Then a tremor shook his body. He raised a muddy hand to his neck, then dropped it again. His eyes fluttered closed.

“Don’t see anything,” said Wayne, moving his hand gently up Eli’s neck. Then he peered closely. “But there’s a mark,” he said in a low voice.

Wayne pulled his head up to stare at me, his face tight with anger. Angry at whoever had done that to Eli?

Eli’s eyelids popped open suddenly, revealing the terror in his eyes.

“My face was in the mud,” he whispered urgently. “I was smothering in the mud!” Then his voice calmed. He asked wonderingly, “Did I turn myself over?”

“Must have,” said Wayne brusquely. Then more gently, “You’re okay now. We’re with you.”

“Thank you,” murmured Eli, closing his eyes once more. “Thank you.”

A few moments passed. Eli looked far too still as he lay there. And why didn’t he straighten out his legs?

“Shall I try to help you out of the mud?” Wayne suggested.

“Am I still in the mud?” Eli answered dreamily, his words barely audible. He didn’t bother to open his eyes. Damn. He may have been breathing and talking, but it was obvious that his faculties were seriously impaired.

“You are in the mud,” answered Wayne, his deep voice taking on a soothing tone. “But you’re on your back. You’re fine now. Just fine.”

“Who did this to you, Eli?” I asked softly. Eli didn’t answer. And as I asked that question, a related one blossomed in my mind. Where was the person who did this to him? I looked over my shoulder anxiously, seeing no one through the opening in the brick wall. But I wasn’t reassured. However long it felt, I knew we had been with Eli only a few minutes at most. Was the would-be murderer waiting nearby? All I could hear was my own heart pounding as I strained for the sound of someone in the dark. I felt a trickle of fresh sweat drip down my face.

“My glasses,” rasped Eli, breaking the silence. “Where are my glasses?”

Wayne felt around in the mud, but pulled his hands out empty.

“It’s all right,” I told Eli. “We’ll get you another pair of glasses.” He murmured an inaudible reply.

“Do you remember who did this to you?” I asked once more, raising my voice as much to give myself courage as to get Eli’s attention.

His eyes fluttered open briefly. “Someone did this to me?” he asked.

I restrained myself from cursing aloud. So much for a quick identification.

It was time to get help. And I doubted anyone would hear our shouts this far away from the main building. Except, perhaps, the murderer. I would have to go on foot.

“I’d better get an ambulance,” I said to Wayne. I looked out the brick opening toward the dark path I would have to take, and shivered. “And the police,” I finished.

I turned to go quickly. I had wasted enough time.

“Wait!” Wayne called to me. He lowered his volume to a whisper. “Could still be out here.” However incomplete his sentence was, I knew he meant the murderer.

“One of us has to stay with Eli,” I said, an unwelcome quiver in my voice belying the decisive tone of my words. “The other has to get help.”

I turned to see Wayne’s strained face in the moonlight. I knew he wanted to choose the more dangerous task for himself. But which was more dangerous? Going as a messenger? Or staying as a guard? The murderer might be waiting on the dirt path to kill the messenger. With the messenger dead, the murderer would be free to pick off Eli and his guard leisurely. My hands began to tremble. But maybe the murderer was only interested in Eli, just waiting until the messenger left, to attack Eli and his only remaining guard. The trembling spread to my legs. Once Wayne and I split up, neither of us was going to be as safe as we were together. But we couldn’t leave Eli alone.

“I’ll run to the dining hall,” I announced, cutting short the menacing babble in my mind. If my body trembled any harder, I wouldn’t be able to move at all. “It’s not far,” I added. “Probably less than a half a mile.”

Wayne stood up on the edge of the bath. He reached out a hand to me, then realized that it was too far away to touch and drew it back. He glanced down at Eli, lying peacefully in the mud.

“I’ll yell my head off if I so much as see anyone,” I promised. Wayne nodded. “And you do the same,” I ordered. He nodded again.

I turned once more to go. “Kate,” Wayne whispered. I looked over my shoulder.

“What?” I asked.

“Can’t lose you,” he answered gruffly. “Take care of yourself. Please.”

“I will,” I said and left.

Jogging down the dirt path in the moonlight, I tried to take care of myself. I strained my ears to hear any sound that was out of place. But all I could hear was my own labored breathing and my feet slapping the dirt. I scanned the path ahead for movement, seeing only unrelieved darkness. But I felt something. A presence. Was someone watching me? Or was the presence my own fear, taking palpable form? I ran faster. And thought of Suzanne. Had she been running when the murderer had caught her?

I was almost to the dining hall when I saw the figure on the porch. I couldn’t see who it was, only the tall shadow silhouetted by the porch light. Sweat bathed my entire body. I stopped short and took a deep breath. It was time to yell.

“Help!” I screamed. “Get the police! Get an ambulance!”

The figure raced down the stairs toward me. Oh God. Should I turn and run?

“Help!” I screamed even louder.

Finally I saw who was coming toward me. It was Officer Guerrero. And she had her hand on her gun. My body convulsed with relief. Then my legs gave out. I flopped painfully down onto the dirt path, jolting my tail bone. Impatiently, I forced myself to stand again.

“What’s happened?” Guerrero demanded. I saw my own fear reflected in her wide eyes. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“Eli Rosen, in the mud bath!” I raced the words out. “He’s hurt.”

“Dead?” she asked tightly.

“No, he’s alive,” I answered. Suddenly I was very grateful. Eli was alive. The murderer had made a mistake. “But he needs an ambulance.”

Guerrero motioned me to go on.

“We’ve got to hurry,” I insisted. I wasn’t taking any more time to be grateful. What if the murderer was there at the mud bath now? “Eli’s alone out there. Him and Wayne.”

“Hold on,” said Guerrero, putting her hand on my shoulder. “Is Wayne your boyfriend?” I nodded impatiently. “And he’s hurt too?”

“No,” I answered. “Only Eli is hurt. Wayne’s guarding him.” Guerrero nodded slowly. Why wouldn’t the woman hurry up? “But the murderer could find them any minute. We’ve got to protect them!”

“Did you see the assailant?” Guerrero asked.

I shook my head frantically.

“Okay. Tell me Mr. Rosen’s injuries, and I’ll call it in,” she said. “Then we’ll go.”

“I don’t know what his injuries are,” I yelped. I told myself to calm down. “He was strangled, I think. And put in the mud bath to smother. His legs are twisted—”

“Is he conscious?” asked Guerrero.

“He was,” I answered. “But barely.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll call it in.” She turned to the stairs, then turned back. “Wait here for me,” she ordered.

“But—”

“I don’t know the way,” she explained. “Wait. I’ll be right back.” Then she turned back to the stairs, ran up them and through the front doors. At least she was hurrying now.

So I waited, hoping this wait wasn’t something I would regret for my entire life. I doubted I could hear Wayne yell for help this far away. And even if he yelled and I heard him, could I get there in time? And what would I do anyway? I needed Guerrero with me. Her and her gun.

I heard steps behind me. I swiveled my body in the direction of the sound quickly. I saw Fran. She was scurrying toward me, dressed in a chenille bathrobe. She fiddled with the sash around her waist.

I stepped back, watching her hands on the sash. Was chenille strong enough to strangle a person? This person? I wouldn’t bet my life it wasn’t. I resisted the urge to turn and look over my shoulder for Officer Guerrero. I kept my eyes on Fran and her hands.

“Oh, Kate,” she greeted me breathlessly. Her face didn’t look murderous, only softly concerned. “Has something happened? I heard you screaming. There hasn’t been another…?” Her words trailed off. She looked down at the ground. Was she still unable to pronounce the word “murder”?

“No, there hasn’t,” I snapped.

I heard more footsteps. I glimpsed a brief look of fear on Fran’s face as she turned toward the sound. But the approaching footsteps belonged to her husband and her son. Bradley Beaumont was in his bare feet and striped pajamas. His son Paul, however, was fully dressed in jeans, T-shirt and Adidas running shoes. I asked myself why he was dressed at this hour. Then again, I was fully dressed too.

“We heard a yell,” said Bradley, his voice unusually resonant in the darkness.

I breathed deeply, trying to center myself. The three Beaumonts stared at me as if I were an abstract painting they were trying to comprehend. Their faces seemed preternaturally pale in the moonlight, their eyes dark pits. The word “vampire” flitted through my mind. I wished it hadn’t. I took three more steps backward, reminding myself that the marks on the victims’ necks didn’t look anything like vampire marks. As far as I knew. I took another step backward. The Beaumonts continued to stare.