Canary (23 page)

Again she had the sensation of being watched, and she snapped her head about. As if on cue, leaves briefly rustled behind her. Clarisse looked all about her, without any pretense this time, but was unable to pinpoint the source of the noise. She dropped the rosary into her pocket and moved back along the path, retracing her steps.

She cried out sharply when something dark and blurred shot past her feet. She chided herself immediately when she saw that it was a squirrel. The animal stopped a few yards off the path and went up on its hind legs. It stared not at Clarisse but well past her through the trees. Clarisse knitted her brow curiously and followed the animal's line of vision. From what she could determine, the squirrel was looking in the direction of two large sycamores whose trunks had grown together and then separated into a widening V not far off the ground. Clarisse stepped off the path and made her way over to the mutant trees.

Leaning against the divided trunks and peering through the V of the sycamore Clarisse saw Bander sprawled on the ground, facedown, unmoving. His arms were extended from his sides. A red-striped necktie was wound and crossed about his neck, one end of it draped over the shoulder of his gray uniform. Clarisse rushed around the tree and dropped to her knees at his side. Finding the tie was unknotted, she yanked it from around his neck. She grabbed Bander's arm and rolled him onto his back. His cheek and nose knocked against her knee. His lips parted, and he emitted a deep, guttural moan.

“Thank God…” Clarisse breathed. She slapped his cheek, then once again, but more firmly. “Bander…”

The man dragged a hoarse, involuntary breath into his lungs. His eyes came open, showing only whites. They blinked closed again, then parted to show dilated irises. “What the hell hap—” he asked thickly, and then coughed. He put a hand to his throat as Clarisse helped him sit up. She brushed away a few twigs and crushed leaves clinging to his uniform.

Clarisse retrieved the red striped tie and showed it to him. He took it in both his hands, stared at it, but didn't speak.

“Somebody tried to kill you,” said Clarisse, “unless, of course, this was just a little auto-bondage
al fresco
that got out of hand.”

Bander slowly got to his feet. Clarisse tried to help, but he pushed her away.

“Did you see who it was?” he asked.

Clarisse shook her head. “No. I think I must have scared him away.”

Bander leaned into the V of the sycamore. He stretched his neck this way and that, massaging it with one hand. “Him?”

“It was a woman?”

“I don't know,” said Bander, harshly clearing his throat.
“I was just wandering around out here when I saw this weird-looking tree. I came over to look at it. Somebody just popped up behind me, and the next thing I know, this was around my neck, and then we were struggling, and I blacked out.”

“You didn't even get a glance at who it was?” Clarisse persisted.

Bander shook his head. He closed his eyes and drew a breath to steady himself. When he opened his eyes again, he said, “If you hadn't come along…” Bander stopped abruptly. He slid the tie through his hands. “Maybe nobody tried to kill me at all.” He looked at Clarisse. “Maybe this was just somebody's idea of a practical joke?”

“I doubt it,” Clarisse replied, taken aback. “It's pretty sick for a joke, and what's practical about strangling someone until they pass out?”

“Some people get off on it.”

Clarisse stared at him a moment. “Bander,” she said emphatically, “I hardly have to remind you that over half a dozen men have already been murdered in Boston with no apparent motive—and everyone strangled with a necktie.”

“Not everyone. The man in the Fenway bushes was strangled with his own belt.” He looked at her. “The man who lived on Comm Ave. was strangled with panty hose. Anyway, those guys were killed in Boston. This is Vermont.”

Clarisse's eyes widened. “They were friends of yours?”

“Tricks, actually. Besides, I don't know
exactly
what did happen just now. And I'm certainly not going to go off half-cocked and call the cops and risk it getting into the papers and losing my job.”

“That's not it at all,” Clarisse challenged. “You're scared, aren't you?”

“I don't want to talk about it any more, okay?”

“No, it isn't okay, Bander. Will you at least give
some
thought to going to the police? I'll go with you to verify your story.”

“All right, all right. I'll think it over. Right now I need a drink.”

Bander threw the tie over one shoulder. He pushed away from the tree and headed in the direction of the lodge.

“Not one word of thanks?” Clarisse called after him.

“Thanks,” he said over his shoulder.

Clarisse followed behind Bander and watched him until he went inside the lodge. She continued on to the edge of the Cold River. All the contestants were at last in their tubes, massing behind the starting rope. Clarisse scanned the men until she spotted Valentine. She called his name loudly and waved frantically with one hand to get his attention, splashing a few feet into the water.

The man in the tube turned to her lazily. He had blond hair and a darker beard—but he was not Valentine. Clarisse swore under her breath. Behind her on the shore the starting gun signaling the beginning of the race exploded, and the rope barrier was dropped into the water. All eighty-five tubes started toward her, occupants screaming their starting excitement. Alarmed, Clarisse stumbled back over some rocks beneath the water. Her glasses slipped from her face and splashed in the stream. She made a lunge to grab them and lost her footing, then her balance, and tumbled backward, landing atop a thin mustached man wearing the number twenty-three.

Twenty-Three caught her before she could do any damage to him or flip over his tire. Clarisse had fallen onto her side. Her tilted hat covered her face. She tore at it madly. The man pulled her around onto her back beside him. Clarisse's bottom plunked through the tire opening, and she felt the sudden cold of the water. Twenty-Three yanked her hat up until it was out of her face but now resting on the right side of her head, the bow adorning her left ear.

“Welcome aboard!” Twenty-Three beamed, exposing a toothy smile beneath a bushy mustache one shade of red lighter than his hair. His eyes were glassy and bloodshot.

“I'm mortified,” Clarisse exclaimed as she twisted her hat back into place. “Please, just get me out of this thing.”

“Hey,” Twenty-Three protested, “this is a race. And we're in it for the duration.”

“What?” Clarisse looked about. The shore of the stream was far away on either side of them, and dozens of other tubers turned and swirled all about.

“You should have dressed for this,” Twenty-Three remarked. “You're gonna do a real number on yourself. Speaking of numbers…” He fished a joint out of his pocket.

“No, thank you,” said Clarisse a little stiffly. “I'd just like to get out of this tire.”

“No can do, matie.”

“I hate it when people call me matie,” Clarisse said. “Please don't do it.”

Clarisse twisted about, trying to catch sight of Valentine.

“Hey,” protested Twenty-Three, “stop whacking me with that hat!”

Sean floated past. “You're never going to win two to a tube,” he remarked.

“She's a stowaway,” Twenty-Three said.

“Sean, help me!” Clarisse pleaded.

Sean waved, spinning out of reach downstream.

“Niobe!” Clarisse shouted when she saw the Chinese woman streaming past, holding hands with men in tubes on either side of her, their tires bumping against each other on their way. The tube nearest the shore blundered against a submerged rock, and the three were whipped in a line against the shore bank. Niobe and her friends screamed in laughter as Clarisse hurtled past them and out of sight around another bend.

Clarisse pushed herself far up on her hands. “I'm going to jump and swim for it.”

“Sharp rocks on the bottom,” Twenty-Three warned. “Undertow. Sharks. Leeches. This is the most dangerous river in North America. Have a drink.”

Clarisse scanned the water and the shore on either side. The forest was thick, and they had passed no signs of habitation. She drew her breath when she saw a male figure standing on the edge of the water, half-hidden by a cedar that had nearly toppled into the water. Although she could not distinguish his face, Clarisse recognized the brightly flowered sport shirt and pale slacks she'd seen Father McKimmon wearing earlier in the day. She turned back and settled into the tire once more. At least the water was no longer frigid against her backside.

“These tires were not built for two,” Twenty-Three complained. “But it won't be so bad if we both have a drink.”

“Why do you keep saying that? Where do you propose to get a drink out here?”

Twenty-Three reached into the water and tugged at a rope tied around the inner tube. When her partner took up the slack on the rope, Clarisse discovered that the other end was attached to an unoccupied tube that had been spilling along in the water behind them. When the spare came right up to their side, she saw that three six-packs of Budweiser had been strapped to the inside of the tube, keeping cold in the river water.

“Neat, huh?” said Twenty-Three proudly.

“Let me help,” Clarisse said. She pulled the three six-packs out of the spare tube and dropped them into Twenty-Three's lap.

“I'm not going to drink them all at once,” he protested, but by that time Clarisse had already deftly rolled herself out into the spare. She quickly untied the rope and kicked away Twenty-Three's tire.

“Thank you very much,” she said, righting her hat and arranging herself as comfortably as possible for the trip downstream.

Fifteen minutes later, Clarisse was taking up the back side of the mass of tires glutting the stream. Since she could do nothing about her predicament, she decided she would try to enjoy herself. The bright sun felt good, and a soft cooling breeze wafted across the water. She closed her eyes and abruptly opened them again as someone in another tire thunked into her side. Clarisse looked and was taken aback to see B.J., one hand holding on to her tire to keep herself alongside.

B.J. held out a small amber-colored bottle with a black top. “Hey, I'm sorry I knocked into you earlier,” B.J. said.

“Why apologize now?”

“I just feel good. Come on; accept my apology and have a hit.”

B.J. uncapped the bottle, clamping her thumb over the opening immediately.

Clarisse drew back. “What is that?”

“Poppers.”

“Amyl nitrate? No, thank you, B.J.”

B.J. shrugged and recapped the bottle. “Suit yourself. I just thought it might make going over the rapids more fun for you.”

Clarisse's eyes widened slowly. “Rapids?”

“Straight ahead.”

B.J. gave Clarisse's tire a kick, jetting herself away with a peal of laughter. The motion sent Clarisse's tire into a turn and caused it to pick up speed.

Hoots of feigned terror from fellow tubers swept over Clarisse as, to her utter horror, she saw those ahead of her disappear in crashes of white water and mist.

Clarisse covered her face with both hands as she was swept along to the rocky curve of the rapids.

“O
H, GOD, VAL,”
Clarisse moaned desolately, “by tomorrow I'm going to look like a two-legged blister. Even between my toes is sunburned. I won't be able to show myself in public for at least two weeks.”

Valentine stifled a smile but was unable to keep amusement out of his voice. “Now, Lovelace, it's not that bad. You look no worse than something dredged up out of the hold of the
Andrea Doria
.”

“If it wouldn't imperil my life just now,” Clarisse replied tightly, “I'd knock your block off for that.”

Valentine and Clarisse were driving down Route 2 on their return to Boston. It was a few minutes before eight o'clock, nearing dusk. They were alone in the car, Niobe having decided to go back to the city with the manager of a rock performance bar in Boston.

Clarisse sat on a green beach towel spread across the passenger seat. Her damp hair was pulled back into a limp ponytail at the nape of her neck. Her clothes were soaked through. The blouse was missing its left sleeve, and the right pocket hung in a flap of material. She was barefoot, and her legs and forearms were marred by fresh bruises and red abrasions. Clarisse examined her legs with a distressed expression. She uncapped a tube of medicated cream they'd purchased at a drugstore after leaving River Pines Lodge a half hour earlier.

“You can't imagine how horrible it was, Val.” She smoothed a blob of the bluish cream down one calf.

“What happened to your glasses, sandals, and hat, by the way?”