Linda Lovely - Marley Clark 02 - No Wake Zone (25 page)

Somehow Ross managed a world-class dismount to the Stingray
swim platform. With an outstretched hand, he yanked me from my ice-water bath.
Together we scrambled over the fiberglass knee wall separating us from the
deck.

Now we were onboard but ill prepared. Ross needed time to
load another spear. Downing the next kidnapper would be up to me. I grabbed the
gaff I’d planned to use as a club and sprinted ahead. I hunkered down in
shadows to the left of Gary’s body, held my breath…and prayed the sight of a
spear protruding from a colleague would rattle our enemy. Coupled with a
background image of Ross and his spear gun, the visual confusion might provide
an opening for me to whomp him upside the head.

The new kidnapper hustled into view, then stalled as he
tried to absorb the scene. I took my one chance. Winding up as if there were
runners on all bases, I had to hit one out of the ballpark. The man’s gun
swiveled toward me. I swung my bat-gaff. A sickening thwonk confirmed contact.
A second later, a sharp sting and burning sensation told me he’d landed a blow,
too. I’d been shot.

My bleeding left arm hung dead and useless at my side. My
adversary looked even worse. While the gaff missed his temple, it tore a hole
through his cheek and impaled his tongue.

Ross retrieved the man’s dropped gun and pointed it at his
chest. “Move an eyelash and I’ll shoot.”

Despite gagging on his own blood, the man grabbed a seat and
attempted to lever himself upright.

Someone stomped on the gas. The Stingray leapt forward.
Guess the survivor figured to shake things up. The boat snapped back like an
enraged pit bull stymied by a choke chain. The grappling hook-as-anchor blocked
the attempted getaway. The bucking knocked Ross and me flat.

Our bleeding enemy recovered his balance quicker than we
did. He made for the bow. We pursued. Ross led as we bolted up the step to the
raised captain’s platform. I stared at the captain’s handgun aimed directly at
us. Ross squeezed off a shot. He’d kept his finger on the trigger of the
captured gun.

The captain screamed and toppled overboard. One less threat
in our equation. Now the odds favored us. Two versus one hemorrhaging villain.
Except he’d disappeared. Feeling vulnerable without a weapon, I used my
still-working right arm to extract the only thing left in my backpack—a wadded
up fish net.

“Where’d he go?” I whispered.

“Dammit, he crawled into the cuddy cabin. Down with Mom.
Only one way in. He’s got a definite advantage.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t have a gun. The faster we move the
better off we are.”

Cradling my injured arm, I ran like hell to beat Ross to the
cuddy cabin door. I knew the first person in would take the brunt of any
counterattack. I figured that should be me since I’d gotten us into this mess.

As I burst headfirst into the cabin, I threw the net clutched
in my left hand.

“Marley!” Aunt May screamed. “He has a knife.”

As the lunatic pulled his dagger from a leg holster, my
fishnet snared him. I pushed off the stairs. The fishnet snagged my legs.
Thrashing arms and legs kicked at our shared straitjacket. Out of the corner of
my eye, I glimpsed something red and shiny. A cylinder? I heard a pop and a
loud whoosh.

The last thing I remembered.

Stretched out on an operating table, I bit my lip as a
doctor pulled another stitch through my upper arm. It hurt like hell, even
though my arm felt tingly from the shoulder down.

“If you leave a scar, you’ll answer to me,” Aunt May warned.
“I want those stitches harder to see than tits on a boar hog!”

I wanted to laugh. My hallucination was funny. The deja vu
dialogue was lifted straight from my teenage follies—my infamous après car
wreck visit to Dickinson County Hospital’s ER. Aunt May sure was bossy back
then.

Her voice sounded so real, so close.

Lazily, I opened my eyes. A doctor. I could smell his Brut
aftershave and count individual follicles in his five o’clock shadow. He bent
close, frowning in concentration. A needle popped into my flesh. I squinted.
Aunt May hovered on the sidelines. Her snow-white hair a dead giveaway I wasn’t
in some trance. I blinked.

“Lookey who’s decided to join the party,” May crowed. “About
time. Didn’t want you to miss all the fun.”

“You’re okay? And Ross?” Words tumbled like cotton balls on
my sandpaper tongue.

“Fine and fine.” May smiled.

“Okay, May.” The doctor looming over me made a shooing
motion. “Out with you. No need to excite our patient. We’ll have her out of
here in no time—if you’ll let us be.”

“Humph.” May toddled away. I slipped back into never-never
land.

***

What a nice dream. Duncan kissed me. One of those deep,
lingering numbers that make my knees go weak, not arthritic. He bent to kiss my
breast. Not good. His lips felt like ice.

I awoke with a start and stared into the face of a
white-on-white nurse—pasty skin, gray hair, white uniform. Her cold metal stethoscope
pressed against my chest.

Why don’t they ever let you sleep in hospitals? Uh-oh, why
was I in the hospital?

It started to come back. I scanned my field of vision for
added clues. Duncan rose from a bedside chair to take my hand. “Hi.”

I squinted to make his smile swim into clearer focus.

“How are you feeling?”

I felt grouchy and anxious despite his devilish grin. “What
the hell happened?”

“You got shot and you have a concussion. The doctors say
you’ll be fine but they kept you for observation because of the knock on your
head. Ross and May fared better—not a scratch. Your aunt’s wrists and ankles
are a little irritated from being tied up. She’ll probably outlive us all.”

“What happened to that guy in the cabin with May? I don’t
remember a thing after I tackled him. How did Ross take him down?”

“He didn’t.” Duncan laughed. “May did. They tied her hands
in front of her. Didn’t think a pipsqueak eighty-year-old could do much damage.
She hopped around the cabin, found a compact fire extinguisher, and hid it
under a blanket. She planned to foam the bastard. Blind him with a
high-pressure nozzle in the face.

“Then you dropped in—so to speak—and snagged the kidnapper
in the fishnet. Since you had the guy’s head pinned securely to the ground, May
stuck the nozzle right in his ear and pulled the trigger. Might as well have
shot him with a .22 caliber. He died instantly. But the explosion jackknifed
his body and drove your head into a cabin beam.”

“Dammit, I can’t believe it. All three guys on the kidnap
boat are dead?”

“No. The driver—the fellow Ross shot—lived,” said Duncan. “The FBI arrived about the time May extinguished the last fellow, picked the
wounded captain out of the brink and medevaced him to a hospital. Weaver hopes
he’ll talk, though he may not know much. He was one of Bo Quigley’s disciples.
He never communicated with anyone in Spirit Lake.”

“What about Bo Quigley and his bioterrorism plans?”

“I can answer that.” The new voice came from the door to my
room. General Irvine looked tired but pleased.

“Homeland Security raided Quigley’s camp in Montana. He’s done for and the genie’s back in the bottle—at least this time around. All
the stolen research has been secured. The lab making the bioterrorism cocktails
was destroyed and the workers are in jail.”

“Is Weaver okay?”

The general walked over to a small table and set down a vase
of roses. “Yes. She sends her thanks. You have mine, too. She’s busy with some
mop-up details or she’d be here.”

Duncan chimed in. “Your idea for a website warning gave
Weaver ample time to set up her own ambush. The FBI bagged four homegrown
terrorists in the Arnolds Park skirmish. All dead.”

The general nodded. “Too bad her only hope of nailing Kyle
and Hamilton rests with the guy your cousin hospitalized, plus any evidence they
inadvertently left behind.”

“You’re kidding.” My head pounded. “She can’t put Kyle or
Hamilton at Arnolds Park? There’s no proof one or both of them were behind
this?”

Duncan put a hand on my shoulder, trying to pin me to the
bed. “Calm down.”

My eyes pleaded with the general. “I know this is Hamilton’s scheme. He hired those thugs. Kyle wouldn’t have the contacts, the know-how.
Can’t Weaver trace payments… or phone calls?”

General Irvine played with the cuff of his jacket. His eyes
didn’t meet mine. “Agent Weaver and the FBI will follow the money trail. Let
her do her work. I’m sure all the guilty parties will pay. In time.”

“In time,” I repeated with disgust. “Okay, now it’s time for
me to go home.”

“Let’s ask the doctor,” Duncan said.

A namby-pamby answer if I ever heard one. “Let’s not,” I
snapped. “I have to see Ross and May with my own eyes, convince myself they’re
okay.”

The general laughed. “It’s a wonder the colonel lasted in
the Army. She doesn’t like to follow orders.”

He gave a jaunty salute. “I have to leave. Just wanted to
say thanks.”

When the general exited, Duncan took my hand again. “May and
Ross sat vigil with you most of the night, until the doctors insisted they
leave. Doc Johnson worried May’s health would suffer if she didn’t get some
sleep. He gave her a sedative and sent her home with Ross. They’ll both be
asleep for hours. So there’s no rush.”

“I still want to go. Please.”

Duncan helped me dress—a strange reversal of roles. Despite
the strenuous objections of the nurse on duty, I signed myself out without a
doctor’s blessing. As usual, the hospital triumphed with its final humiliation,
insisting Duncan roll me away in a wobbly wheelchair. It was early morning, seven a.m.

Duncan drove us straight to Eunice and Ross’s house. Queenie
and Empress yelped as soon as our feet hit the front path. Some things had
returned to normal. The barking hubbub made the doorbell superfluous. Eunice
greeted us instantly and hugged me tight.

I winced at the pressure on my newly upholstered arm.

“Oh, sorry. I’m so glad to see you. I’m up early for me, but
I wanted to make sure no one bothered Ross and May. They need their sleep.”

“I just want to see them.” The tears I’d been holding back
sprang a leak. “I promise I won’t wake them.”

Eunice nodded and led me to a ground-floor master bedroom
where Ross hugged a pillow. A smile tugged at my sleeping cousin’s puckered
mouth. He looked about five years old—and cuddly—though he’d refute the
adjective.

Next I followed Eunice upstairs, where she carefully opened
a guestroom door. May’s snoring confirmed her presence before her fluffy white
perm came into view. Her lips gently puffed open with each exhale.

“Thank you.” I hugged Eunice again then headed down the
staircase.

Duncan waited in the hall, patiently petting the Shelties.
They’d attached themselves like Velcro to his pant legs. As a rule, Queenie and
Empress regard men with disdain. Their acceptance of Duncan seemed a good sign.
Or maybe not, since the dogs were none too fond of me.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror and
shuddered. No one had mentioned my black eye or the nasty bruises coloring a
fair percentage of my body.

“Why don’t you stay?” Eunice suggested. “Sleep here. I’ll
make up another guestroom.”

“Thanks but no thanks,” I answered. “Think I’ll head to
May’s and soak out some of this soreness in a hot bubble bath. Clean clothes
and hot coffee sound wonderful.”

I’d actually gotten a fair night’s sleep at the hospital,
even though my slumber was the pharmacologically-induced kind that leaves me
groggy for days.

I smiled. “Please, please call as soon as Ross and May wake
up. I’ll come running.”

“Of course.”

“I love you.” I kissed my cousin’s cheek as we left.

“Love you, too.”

Though Duncan offered to keep me company, I sent him away
with a kiss and a promise of more to come. His cool head and pluck under
pressure impressed me. His willingness to pull sentry duty for a hospitalized
friend added brownie points. Of course, Duncan’s superb performance ratings in
other areas didn’t hurt my overall fondness for the man.

Yet I wasn’t anxious for anyone’s company. Duncan needed
sleep; I craved a little self-pampering and solitude. A few hours to relax
without a single demand.

But first I figured I’d wrangle an update from Weaver.
Surely she’d figured some new avenue to prove Hamilton and Kyle pulled the
strings.

Weaver answered my call on the first ring. “Marley, I can’t
talk. I’m at Vivian Riley’s house. Kyle’s dead. So are Nancy and Vivian. All
three shot in the head with a nine-millimeter Glock. Eric, our presumed
shooter, is missing.”

“What!”

“Later.” Weaver hung up before I could digest her news.

Kyle Olsen, another of my mastermind candidates, lay dead.
Why would Eric kill all three of them? Had to be some drug-induced psychotic
rage.

It felt like I had ten-pound sacks of potatoes tied to each
appendage. My drooping eyelids also signaled defeat. I dragged myself to May’s
bathroom and turned the faucets to fill her oversized spa tub then added a
generous dollop of lavender bubble bath. Steam filled the room as the hot water
ran. The tub sloshed a little water on the tiled floor as I slid in.

I’m a shower person. Baths are too much trouble, too time
consuming. Yet this felt wonderful. What’s more, the nurse had given stern
instructions to keep my stitches dry for at least forty-eight hours. With my
left arm draped on the tub ledge, I submerged all other body parts except for a
small breathing oval of eyes, nose and mouth. The bubbles tingled. The lilac
scent soothed; the heat consoled.

Eyes closed, I let my mind drift. Would Darlene and Julie
ever feel safe enough to come home? I was convinced Kyle and Hamilton were
behind all the deaths. Still Weaver theorized the killers had little to gain by
pursuing a vendetta against Darlene and Julie. They’d been convenient
scapegoats, not targets.

If I were Darlene, I’d feel uneasy until the bloodthirsty
half-brothers traded pinstripes for prison stripes.

And now Eric was shooting folks.