Dear Killer (Marley Clark Mysteries) (17 page)

The two times guests talked me into a climb to the
lighthouse’s pinnacle, I clung to the walls like Spiderwoman, while they
strolled the circular parapet and leaned over the railing to drink in the view.
On a clear day, you could see for miles. Freighters appeared to be toys on the
sparkling sea. Dear Island’s lush interior looked like a feathery green
bouquet. Sandbars poked from the dark ocean like pods of surfacing white
whales.

Get your ass in gear. Don’t look down.

I psyched myself to dash up the steps.
Don’t stop until
you reach the top.
I’d climbed exactly four treads when I fell like a ton
of bricks. There was a reason for that “wet paint” sign. I’d used my hands to
break my fall. They were caked with the sticky goo. Reddish gunk smeared my
white slacks. Lifting a sneaker, I saw the jelled goop had oozed into every
crevice in my soles.
So much for running.
Get up. Still gripping my brick,
I began slip-sliding upward. At least the thug would be climbing the same
greased pole if he followed.

But how far did he really need to climb? All he needed
was a clear shot.

The tight, winding metalwork offered limited cover. If I
were lucky, the mesh treads would repel bullets zinging up from below. I just
had to keep as many treads as possible between Underling and me and avoid
leaning over the railing at the spiral center. If I could reach the top, I had
a chance. Once I walked out onto the viewing platform, Underling would have to
come through the door to reach me. Then I’d brain him with the brick, grab his
gun, and deal with his sidekick. Piece of cake.

I’d scrabbled a third of the way up the lighthouse when
Underling and his cohort made their raucous entry. I didn’t dare look down.
Vertigo. My pulse rocketed to hummingbird status, and my neck vibrated with the
continuous thump of blood.

They were arguing. Hope surged. Dissension in the ranks.
Yippee
.

Pop. Repeated pings followed the loud noise. Ricochets. One
bullet dodged. Below me, the thug unleashed a torrent of Polish cuss words.

You may kill me, but you’re going to have to work for it,
sucker.

The staircase rattled when one of my pursuers started his
climb. The metal groaned in protest. Was the overweight Underling trudging
upward?

I panted and climbed higher. While the interior was dark,
there were openings in the brick foundation every ten to fifteen feet of
vertical rise. The two-foot-square air holes served as beacons. Each spot where
light pierced the shaft became a concrete goal as I rushed skyward.

Ten steps from the summit I heard a thudding crash. The
stairs shook. My hefty pursuer had taken a swan dive on the greasy metal. His
two-hundred-plus-pound frame must have bounced a few steps before it collided
with the wall. What I heard next—the sound of a sizable metal object plinking
against the metal stairs—made me want to sing a hallelujah chorus. He’d dropped
his gun. The musical clangs narrated the gun’s fall to the base.

Though not a final reprieve, it was, nonetheless, a cause
for celebration. A second later, I burst onto the viewing platform. Driven by a
fear greater than acrophobia, I dashed to the railing. Looking over, I spied
assailant number two standing guard at the lighthouse door, keeping watch for
passersby.

I screamed bloody murder. Looking seaward, a distant
beachcombing couple waved at me. No sign of alarm. Did they think my frantic
arm flaps signaled elation at making the climb?

I crab-walked to the opposite side of the lighthouse to
survey the parking lot. My heart almost stopped as a big yellow school bus
pulled in. Good God, I’d prayed for witnesses, but not school kids. The bus
doors whooshed open, and Mike, my park ranger friend, jumped out, followed by a
middle-aged woman in a pantsuit. A second later, the dam broke and a gaggle of
tiny legs flashed down the stairs. An elementary school field trip. Youngsters
swarmed over the picnic area, screeching like banshees.

“Call the police,” I screamed, trying to pierce the racket
below. No luck. The din also drowned out any auditory clues about Underling’s
progress toward my perch.
How close?

I flailed my free arm again, like a duck with an injured
wing. I lacked the strength to lift the arm holding the brick, my only weapon.
I stupidly clung to the notion that I could brain my attacker as he stepped
from the interior of the lighthouse onto the viewing platform.

My waving caught Mike’s eye. He strode briskly toward the
lighthouse.

“Call the police,” I yelled again. “Don’t come closer.
There’s a killer in the lighthouse.”

He kept walking. Had the ocean breeze whisked my warning
away?

I didn’t have a prayer of making myself understood. It
didn’t matter though. As Mike advanced on the lighthouse from one direction, my
ebony-clad assassin scuttled away at a forty-five degree angle. He met up with
the driver of the Firebird near the parking lot. From this height, the thugs
truly looked like bugs as they climbed in their vehicles and drove away.

Shaking with frustration and relief, I suddenly realized my
feet were planted about an inch from the waist-high balustrade. I inched back
from the railing. Mike’s angry voice echoed from below. “Who’s there? You’re
trespassing. Come down immediately.”

He had to figure an idiot tourist had ignored the wet paint
signs and ruined a tedious job. That’s okay. Better to be reamed out for being
a live idiot than a dead duck.

Mike Willis, the young park ranger, had taken me and a dozen
fellow adventurers on an overnight camping excursion. When he caught up with me
halfway up the lighthouse stairs, his anger vanished. He knew I wasn’t a wanton
vandal.

“My God, Marley, what happened?”

Talking helped keep my vertigo at bay as we descended. Still
I teetered on the edge of an emotional precipice, hysterics a short step away.
I bit the side of my mouth each time a sob bubbled up. I refused to break down
in front of a casual acquaintance.

Pride didn’t stop me from gripping Mike’s elbow as we
spiraled downward. He gentled me step by step. The seismic tremors that rattled
my body gave ample clues about my fragile state.

By the time we reached the lighthouse base, I’d relayed the
complete story and regained my mental equilibrium. Though I sidestepped a
sob-o-rama, I now had a violent case of hiccups, and anger supplanted terror on
my emotional roller coaster. I was furious the thugs got away, and even angrier
with myself for my idiocy
.
Why hadn’t I listened to Braden this morning?
Why didn’t I check the glove compartment for my gun before I left Beaufort?

During lunch, I heard a car alarm sound. Could it have been
Underling filching my pistol? Car alarms sound so often we become immune. Or
maybe I’d pushed the wrong button on Donna’s key fob and left her car unlocked.

Finally my rabid speculation addressed more pressing
questions. How did the killer get a description of my borrowed car? An island
accomplice?

Mike radioed Sheriff Conroy and alerted the other ranger on
duty. His compatriot was clearing brush from one of the park’s woodland walking
trails and hadn’t seen or heard a thing.

Mike turned back to me once he signed off. “Sorry I didn’t
see the creeps running away. First, my focus was on the kids. Then, after I
spotted someone waving atop of the lighthouse, all I could think about was a
ruined paint job. Never occurred to me you were in danger.”

Shaking his head, he bent to retrieve the gun Underling
dropped when he slipped. It had wedged between the bottom stair and a pile of
discarded bricks. Crap, it looked like my very own handgun.

“Better leave it. Conroy will want to dust for prints.”

I figured the forensics would prove pointless. He’d probably
worn gloves. If so, the only fingerprints to lift would be mine. I prayed the
sheriff wouldn’t think I hallucinated the episode. No one else had seen my
stalkers. The gun was mine, and my disjointed account sounded demented—even to
my ears. Then I remembered the bullet hole in my tire. I hiccupped again and
held my breath.

Mike touched my arm. Wallowing in self-rebuke, I’d tuned him
out. “Want me to drive you to the Beaufort hospital? Or do you need to wait
here for the sheriff? Since you’re out of danger, Conroy says a roadblock is
his first priority. He’ll be awhile.”

Another hiccup escaped. “I want to go home. Conroy knows one
of the thugs is Underling and he’s got a description. I didn’t get a good look
at the second guy—too far away. He was about six-feet tall and thin, maybe one
hundred and sixty pounds. He had blond hair and wore jeans and a dark pullover.

“Mike, could you help me fix the flat? I don’t want to be
stranded off island tonight. I’ll feel a lot safer on Dear. If we hurry, I can
make the last ferry. Besides, I have a fortune in groceries melting in my
trunk. I can give my statement to a deputy on Dear.”

I didn’t mention that I hoped to do so while clinging to his
naked body.

“You sure?” Mike scuffed a foot in the sandy soil. “I better
clear it with the sheriff. He said I wasn’t to let you out of my sight.”

Mike rang Conroy and explained my hankering to leave. “He
wants to speak with you.” He handed me the phone.

After I repeated my description of the thugs and their
vehicles, the sheriff okayed my departure. A sketch artist would meet me on
Dear tomorrow.

Mike mounted my spare tire and insisted on following me to
the boat landing—his muddy Jeep hugging the bumper of Donna’s abused Lexus.

We arrived at 3:57 p.m. The ferry wallowed in its makeshift
berth. Most of the mainland-bound passengers had already disembarked. Since
this was the last ferry of the day, the folks trudging toward parked cars probably
weren’t Dear residents. I opened my trunk and Mike helped me repack the escaped
oranges and errant vegetables spilled during the chase.

“You don’t have to stay,” I said. “I was trembling like a
leaf when you rescued me, but I’m fine now. Looks like the skipper plans to
take off almost as soon as I board.”

The ranger studied me. My hiccups had subsided, and the hand
I held out for a thank-you handshake was steady. “Glad you’re feeling better.
But I’ll stay till the boat shoves off. Besides you can use some help carting
these groceries. It’s going to take a few trips.”

I smiled. “Just one. Publix loaned a fleet of shopping
carts. A great PR move. We load the groceries at this end, roll ’em aboard, and
wheel ’em to a waiting car on Dear.”

I started walking toward the ferry. “I’ll get a cart.”

“No, I’ll go. You stay here and catch your breath.”

I leaned against the Lexus and watched Mike head down hill.
He nodded a greeting to a group of women dressed in Dear Island uniforms. Three
were black, two white. Maids. My nightmare had made me temporarily forget
Leyla’s plea for help. I considered running to intercept the women, but figured
Sharlana’s co-workers would be more forthcoming if I were introduced as a
concerned friend.

Mike boarded the boat, grabbed a grocery cart, and rolled it
across the gangplank. Just ahead of him, Sally Falcon’s mother fussed at her
ten-year-old granddaughter Molly. Grandma’s bulging suitcase banged against her
leg with each struggling step. My gallant park ranger rushed to help. “Where’s
your car, ma’am? I’ll carry this.”

With effortless grace, he hefted the lady’s suitcase into
the grocery cart and the procession wheeled my way. When they reached my
outpost, I greeted Mrs. Brown and formally introduced Mike to the woman and her
young charge.

“What in blazes happened to you?” Mrs. Brown asked as she
took in my disheveled state and paint-streaked clothes. Using some rags in
Mike’s Jeep, I’d wiped the worst of the paint off my skin. But my attempts at
cleanup merely smeared the gunk on my slacks and top.

“A little dust-up with some wet paint,” I said.

“Little?” Mrs. Brown laughed. “Looks like you rolled around
on a wet blacktop.”

“Not quite.” I didn’t elaborate. “Are you and Molly leaving
Dear for a spell?”

“Yep. Sally sent us packing. We’re headed to Augusta to stay
with relatives for a week. I called a rental car company. They’re sending
someone to pick us up. Hope we don’t have too long to wait.”

Molly wandered away, drop kicking pebbles toward the bay.
“Sweetie, what did I tell you about going near the water?” the concerned
grandmother called. “You keep your distance from that boat ramp.”

The woman turned back to me. “My daughter wants Molly off
Dear until that maniac killer’s caught. She has some wild hair that Molly and I
might be targets. She’s worked herself into a tizzy for no reason. Sure, one of
the victims was married to her partner. But it’s not like the killer is gunning
for our family.”

Mrs. Brown didn’t expect a reply. I answered anyway. “You
can’t blame Sally for wanting to keep you two safe. Besides your daughter’s got
plenty to worry about with reporters, the bridge, and the Easter holiday.

“Who knows how and why this guy picks his victims,” I added,
though I suspected some real estate link.

Mrs. Brown sighed. “I know, I know. Sally’s worried about
her little girl, just like I’m worried about mine.”

***

A note taped to Donna’s front door asked me to refrigerate
anything that would melt. Her apology bristled with exclamation points. She’d
left to play nursemaid. Gerry O’Grady claimed he’d go nuts if he couldn’t
escape for a few hours to play golf. So Donna agreed to baby sit his wife, the
razor-tongued Maureen, whose disposition had curdled further since she broke
her hip.

I retrieved Donna’s key from its well-known hiding place
under the mat, carried in the groceries, and restocked her fridge. A peek
inside the egg carton revealed half the eggs had cracked. I considered writing
my own rambling apology but realized my tale of auto abuse and scrambled
groceries would never fit on a sticky note. And the authorities wouldn’t want
me to blab. I took the coward’s way out. I’d call later.

By five o’clock, I’d replenished my own larder, trashed my
ruined clothes, and showered. Vigorous scrubbing removed the last vestiges of
paint and rinsed away the smell of fear. Coming from Iowa, I’m well aware that
pigs don’t perspire, but I couldn’t think of an appropriate substitute for the
familiar “I sweat like a pig” metaphor. While scaling the lighthouse stairs,
sweat poured off me in buckets, and every trickle carried the stench of terror.

My ablutions came at a price. Purpling bruises bloomed on
shins and forearms where I’d repeatedly bashed my body against unyielding
metal. I toweled dry, snuggled into a velour warm-up and ambled toward the living
room. The cursed answering machine light blinked a visual SOS. Braden’s message
came first. He curtly informed me that he’d joined the sheriff at Wilderness Park
after the roadblock failed. They’d found the SUV and Firebird, both stolen,
abandoned at a launch. The thugs fled by boat.

I swallowed hard. The all-points bulletin would be a waste.
Nothing to go on except my estimate of both men’s height and weight and an
antiseptic description of Underling’s ugly mug. There was no clue about the
true identity of either man. Kain Dzandrek swore the “stranger” he’d lunched
with had introduced himself as Jonas Zegan. The name quickly proved an
investigative dud. I permitted myself a smug smile. The sheriff shouldn’t have
blown off my suspicions. Maybe they’d re-interview Kain.

I rewound Braden’s message and listened again. His
controlled anger provoked conflicting emotions. I was both disappointed and
relieved he wasn’t here. Though I longed to be held, I was in no mood for
lectures.

Braden said to expect him about seven. A friendly park
ranger, undoubtedly Mike, had promised a boat ride since the ferry had shut
down for the day.

The voice on my second missed call brightened my mood. “If
you want me to call you back, you ought to park your hiney by the phone for
more than ten seconds,” Aunt May pontificated. “Why in the name of Jesus, Mary,
and Joseph don’t you buy a cell phone?”

I laughed, reminded of my recent vow to enter the
twenty-first century.

May Carr was seventy-nine going on nineteen. Wrinkles and
her fluffy white perm verified her age, but her feisty blue eyes never
surrendered to the years. When retirement bored the former nurse to tears, May
started a real estate career at age sixty. Since she’d helped deliver half the
population of Spirit Lake, Iowa, she had no problem getting prime lakeside
listings.

At least once a year, I visited May and my cousin, Ross, in
the resort community where I’d worked and played every summer from pre-teen
through college years. May wasn’t a blood relative. She’d wed my mother’s
brother. But she was family. I adored her and she loved me—something that came
through loud and clear even when May was kicking butt, often mine. Since Mom’s
death, May had been my sole link to her generation.

I postponed dinner preparations long enough to call May. She
was just the tonic I needed to quell a case of jitters. She picked up on the
first ring.

“Carr Residence.” Her voice held a hint of sleep. I pictured
her snuggled in the lady’s recliner sized to fit her five-foot frame, softly
snoring as she took an afternoon siesta.

“My hiney is secured to a chair. I’m ready to listen to your
pearls of wisdom.”

“Can it, Marley,” May barked. “I knew you’d be trouble when
you were just a little fart. Nine years old and you scare the bejesus out of me
swimming across the lake alone.”

“Guess I take after you, May.”

She snorted. “What’s up? You’re not calling your old auntie
just to chat, are you? Or did you phone so you could rub it in that you’re
sunbathing. You know I have snow past the rafters and icebergs floating in the
lake. When are you coming to Spirit Lake?”

When May took a breath, I repeated a promise to visit in
June and inquired after my three cousins. Then I listened to May’s latest tales
of real estate daring-do. Finally I got to the point, telling her a dear
friend feared her real estate cohorts were engaged in illegal activities.

“Janie’s got a toe in something that feels like quicksand.
She’s afraid her bosses have sunk past their armpits and might reach out and
pull her down, too.”

To set the stage, I explained how my friend’s employers
primed the marketing pump by offloading a few choice homesites to insiders.

“They lend employees and relatives interest-free money for
down payments and promise to buy the properties back at a profit before the
shills have to make balloon loan payments.”