The Woman (12 page)

She pushed down as hard as she could on her right leg, and extended her left leg out in front of herself, as straight as she could make it. Her left foot cleared.
You made it, girl.
Then the toe of her right foot stubbed against the log.
Damn. I should have turned the foot to put my toe to the side.
Still, her momentum had kept her moving. Her right foot dragged across the log. By the time she had regained her balance on the other side, she had been slowed to a walk. She needed a new plan, at least a revision. She needed a breather, a way to regain some of her lost lead. She turned and ran away from the surf, toward the grassy berms. Ten yards first. Then twenty yards inland, at thirty yards she dove into the grass.

Her legs, even her chest and stomach had passed aching. If she had been jogging, she would have long ago given in to her racing heart, caught her breath and walked home. She wanted to stay in the grass, become another beach creature living in the privacy of their ecosystem. But hers was a different reality. She rose, and then ducked back down.

The quick look confirmed he had changed direction. He was now headed directly toward her.

She stayed out of sight, moved below the grass line, and worked her way back to the fallen logs. From there she crawled along their edge until she returned to the hard sand. There she stood and resumed her frantic race toward town. Her detour had failed. Her lead had not been lengthened. In fact, her rough estimate said she had sacrificed some ten yards of the space that separated them, but she had gotten a short breather. Then again, he had to slog through the soft sand and grass to get back to the packed sand. She prayed that by then she would have recovered the ten yards, maybe even more. It was maddening that the choice between life and death would be measured by a few yards of sand.

The lights of town came into view. She was getting closer. Since the race began, her lead had been cut by more than half, but she had come more than half way.

She glanced back. His gait appeared as smooth as it had at the start. He had to be a jogger, maybe an accomplished runner. Maybe he was one of those Special Forces types who could run all day with a fifty-pound pack on his back. Certainly he had not spent the day, as she had, walking in the sand. She knew he could see her struggling. Her gait was unmistakably uneven. He had to be encouraged by her staggering. He had to believe he was gaining. He was gaining. Still, in a worst case scenario, he didn’t need to catch her. Should he conclude he could not, he only needed to be close enough to shoot her in the legs. Like the two in the alley, this man wanted more than to simply kill her. They all wanted to question her, but why? She had nothing to tell. She knew nothing. Maybe Cynthia had nothing to tell either. Maybe he’ll drill holes in my teeth like he did, someone did, to Cynthia’s mouth.

My God, I can’t let him catch me.

A rocky crag jutted out near the water’s edge about a half mile ahead. At low tide, there was about twenty feet of open sand. The high tide reached the rocks. She had no idea what time she had awakened and run for it, so she had to guess at the tide, but it looked close to full high. If so, no more than a narrow strip of sand might remain between the crag and the surf.

Linda could now smell the urine and fecal matter left by the homeless who often slept in the sand on the downwind side of the rocky crag. The rocks blocked the glow from their small fires. Most nights, Linda could have run to their cardboard hooches and pleaded for help from the half dozen or so men, but not tonight. This morning, Linda had seen the rotating lights above the Sea Crest squad car reflecting off the rock face while McIlhenny’s deputy ran them off for the umpteenth time. The deputy never arrested the sad sacks, but, before leaving on her walk, using her binoculars she had watched them bundle their meager belongings and leave. She had no idea where they went, but somewhere they liked less than the beach because they always returned a few days later.

Linda’s gait was now much less than a run. More like the stumbling progress of a lost vampire found by the morning sun.

The rocks were only twenty yards ahead. Just beyond them, the coastline turned inland. He would not be able to see her again until he, too, had passed the massive rock. She willed herself to widen her shrinking lead, her heart pounding as if it were about to burst free of her chest.

As she neared the rock face, she learned she had reasonably guessed the tide, a small strip of sand did remain. She intentionally drifted into the shallow surf. She wanted him to see her kicking up water as he lost sight of her with the turn of the coastline. When she had gone far enough past the rocks to close off his line of sight, she swung around and ran back toward the crag. The mere thought of going back toward the man filled her with fright. But she knew he was gaining too fast for her to beat him to town and up the cardiac steps.

She had also grown tired of being chased.

At the crag, relying on arms less weary than legs, she began climbing the side of the rock face. Needing her hands free, she held the gun in her teeth. It tasted of wet metal, gun oil, and sand. She bit down so she would not drop it.

Two years ago, Linda had climbed onto this crag to watch a rising storm. She had climbed high enough to stay there until the storm had quieted and the tide lowered. It had been glorious to see, but a foolish, freezing, and frightening night as the fury of the storm had not broken until nearly noon the next day. Still, that experience let her know where to climb. Where she could find cover within the rocks, while she waited for the terror that drew closer each second.

She settled into a cavity pounded out by the crashing waves of a thousand years. The pain traveled her legs like a hamster trapped in a wheel cage.

She had used more than a minute climbing. He had to be close. Then she saw him. He was twenty yards out. His gait still smooth, his white shirt reflecting the moonlight. He was trim, with a thin waist and broad shoulders. His chest calm despite the roughly two miles he had run.

Near the crag, he slowed to a walk. His dark weapon in a leather holster beneath his arm swayed gently with each step. She had waited. He had caught up. They were only a few yards apart.

Her mouth dried.

Linda receded into a water-pooled pocket ten feet above his head. She briefly considered hiding there and letting him pass, but the moonlight would reveal her footprints returning to the rock ledge. Whatever would come now would come. The footrace was over. She took the gun into her hand, then added her other hand to try and steady the shake.

When he was directly below her position, she screamed. “Why?” That was enough. There were a thousand whys. Why are you chasing me? Why does someone want me killed? Why was Cynthia tortured? Why was Cynthia murdered? And more whys, but plain “why” was enough.

The man stopped. His hand instinctively reached for his gun.

“Stop,” she demanded. “Stop or I’ll shoot.”

He turned toward her. His back to the open sea. His feet receding deeper in the surf as the tide pulled around him. He smiled. His smile was pleasant. His physicality impressive.

“I see you have a gun,” he said. “The surprise is on me.” His manner remained casual. In a different setting he might even seem charming. But this was not a different setting. This was now. This was life or death.

“I know how to shoot,” she said, her voice rising like some nervous child with a shaking hand. She cleared her throat. “Maybe not as good as you, but well enough to put several in your guts before you can reach your gun.”

“You think you can make me talk? You? A woman?”

“This woman can make you dead. That’s your choice. Talk or die. First, take your gun out. Slowly. Use your left hand. Two fingers.”

The moonlight reflected off the barrel of the handgun dangling from the tips of his fingers.

“Wrap your left hand around the trigger housing,” Linda commanded. When he had done so, she ordered him to toss it back over his head. “Throw it hard. Do it. Now.”

He did.

She saw and heard the splash.

He smiled; his teeth bright in the moonlight. “Why don’t we go have a drink and talk this over?”

“You think you can charm your way out of this?”

He moved slightly when the ebb pulled at his feet. “I can be a charming fellow if you give me half a chance.”

“You can be a dead fellow if you don’t do what I say.”

“You’re not really going to shoot me, are you?”

“Maybe not if you answer my questions. All of them.”

“I may not be able to do that. I’ve got loyalties.”

“A man like you has no loyalties.”

“Well, then, I’ve been well paid. And what do you think it would do to my reputation if I were to be bamboozled by a woman?”

“Make your decision,” Linda said, her hand now steady. She had no options. “Talk or die. Why am I being hunted?”

“You were a close friend of Cynthia Leclair.”

“Why was Cynthia killed?”

“I won’t tell you.”

“What made my friendship with Cynthia put me on your radar?”

“She may have told you things the man I work for doesn’t want anyone to know.”

“What things?”

“Things about her work. That’s all I know.”

“Cynthia never talked about her work. Never.”

“It doesn’t matter whether I believe you or not.”

“Who sent you?”

“No way, lady. I can’t say anything more.”

“You mean you won’t.”

“Have it your way. I won’t.”

“Is that your final answer?” She felt like a fool using the question she had heard so often on that TV game show.

“Final answer.” He grinned.

Him or me time had arrived. At this moment, it was that simple. No doubt. No gray. She took the slack out of the trigger. The gun jumped in her hand.

The man went down like droppings from the seagulls suddenly quieted by the roar of the gun. The white seabirds scattered to wait somewhere in the sky until the night sea again became theirs. He had guessed she wouldn’t shoot. He had guessed wrong.

She stared at her hand holding the gun, warmed by the explosion of its fire, stared as if trying to identify just whose hand had done this thing. But she knew.

The Sea Crest that had brought her peace, which had allowed her to hide, was gone forever. Her life had turned. Toward what, she did not know.

Linda remained still as if frozen on her ledge. She watched as several incoming waves washed over his face. The ebbs pulling the water back into his nose without him reacting. He was dead.

She climbed down and stood silently in the surf, the retreating sand now pulling at her ankles. She had never before shot anything but paper targets. Paper targets with neat clean holes. Paper targets that didn’t bleed.

The red splotch on his shirt over his heart was already pinking out in the rinsing sea water. The moonlight brightened his face. His was not an ugly face. Not grotesque as one might expect on the face of a killer, the face of a torturer. She guessed his age to be around forty, maybe forty-five. His full head of hair darkened with sea water. The ghoul inside, released, hopefully dead, like its host body.

Her stomach turned queasy. She stepped into the surf. Scooped up saltwater and splashed her face, a second handful circled her neck, cold rivulets crawling down her back and front.

Linda turned back to the man, squatted, and went through his pockets. No wallet. No car key. Not even a hotel key or airline ticket. Nothing. In the many mystery novels she had read, this guy would be called a professional. He was dead now, but not his employer, some truly evil man about whose existence she no longer kidded herself. He would send others. What had happened here had ended only the immediate danger.

In another half mile she could take the wooden stairs from the beach up the sand wall to Ocean Street. These stairs were the only way from the beach to the highway up-beach from her condo. Clark, who worked for O’Malley, lived on Ocean Street, just on the other side of the vacant lot where the stairs came up. She could hide the gun under the top step, and then go to Clark’s for a short rest to gather herself.

What body in the surf, Chief McIlhenny? I didn’t see a body. It was dark when I jogged the beach. It likely washed up at high tide, after I had passed.

She had moved up-beach another hundred yards or so when she felt a fist of ice starting down toward her stomach where a ball of fire waited. She knew the feeling and ran thigh-deep into the surf where her puke would not be found. After several saltwater rinses, she walked out of the eternal waves. The distant inland sky, adorned with faintly flickering stars, appeared as strings of lights suspended along the crest of Pot Ridge.

The civilized world liked to hang onto its rules separating right from wrong, the rules we learned as children with all of it contrasted as clearly as black and white. With maturity comes confusion because there is no line with all the black on one side and the white on the other. It is wrong to kill. Still, that man had come to take her life, first making her suffer pains she couldn’t imagine. Instead, she had taken his life. Killing should not be dismissed as wrong in every instance.

After walking another minute or two, she stopped, then turned and walked back to the man lying dead in the surf. She straddled him, looking down at his face now as innocent as a neighborhood paperboy. She put one foot on each side of his midsection, cradled the gun with two hands, aimed, and squeezed the trigger. Her first shot had found his heart. This second, purely symbolic shot had struck where she aimed, his forehead.