Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim (4 page)

Directions to Frank's fish camp lay on the passenger's seat. The watch sat in her glove
compartment. She had rehearsed what to say. She was nervous, but she'd taken her morning meds,
and the vial in her pants pocket held more if she needed it, which wasn't likely. She hadn't suffered
a full-fledged panic attack in months.

Worst case, Frank wouldn't be there. No. Worse case, he'd laugh in her face.

Her exit was in six miles.

Off the highway, each turn led deeper into the country. Across cleared fields, barns and
houses seemed to hover in the mist. The fields gave way to forested wetlands, and the structures
disappeared. The pavement ended, reminding her that Frank had suggested she drive the company
truck. He always took his Jeep. She downshifted into second and drove slowly to avoid kicking up
gravel or scraping Felicia's low-slung underside.

The last road, its dirt surface as bumpy as an old-fashioned washboard, ran along the top of
an obsolete levee. The river must have moved or been moved. On either side, the land dropped
away and ground fog turned treetops into leafy islands. Two hawks soared overhead. One dove into
the fog and emerged seconds later, a small bird dangling from its talons. Up on the left, tree trunks
painted with Frank's initials in bright orange marked the turn to his fish camp.

She steered between them onto a narrow and rutted dirt track that snaked down the side
of the levee. As she descended, the fog closed in, the sun disappeared, and the temperature
dropped. She crept along, in first gear now, leaning forward and peering through the windshield,
but still unable to see more than a few feet ahead. Smoke mixed with the moldy forest smell and
thickened the fog--Frank must have built a fire to ward off the morning chill.

The smell of smoke intensified and a lightening up ahead suggested a break in the trees.
She drove into a clearing where a dark silhouette emerged from the fog. The burned remains of a
small building sat atop blackened pilings. Ashes and charred rubble covered the ground. Fog
swirled through the wreckage and reached long fingers toward her.

A silver Jaguar, coated with ash and barely visible in the fog, was parked beside the
cabin.

Claire slammed on the brakes, and her engine stalled. She scrambled from the car and ran
across the clearing, leaping blackened spars and chunks of roof, heedless of possible danger from
smoldering embers. She brushed the ashes from the license plate.
Palmer 1
.

Frank had told her he never took the Jaguar down here, but this was his car, his vanity
plate. The driver's door was unlocked and the car empty. Keys lay in the console as if the driver
would return any moment.

Stunned, she stared at what remained of Frank's cabin. Skeletons of walls rose stark and
irrelevant, supporting nothing. The roof had fallen in. A scorched metal stovepipe disappeared in
the fog, and a bit of stairway dangled from what must have been the front deck. She walked over
and tried to reach the lowest step, but it was too high up. And it didn't matter. No one could have
survived inside that.

She rested her forehead against the car roof and gathered her thoughts. Jeanette had said
Frank and Hatch planned to go fishing in the Gulf, and they often stayed out overnight. They were
probably out in his boat and didn't even know there'd been a fire.

The dirt track continued down toward the water. She followed it, walking faster, half
running now despite the thick fog and muddy ground. A protruding root sent her sprawling. She
struggled back to her feet, saw that she'd ripped her slacks, and proceeded more carefully. The
track ended at a bulkhead and a wooden dock. A white cabin cruiser was moored at the end of the
dock, looking like a ghost ship in the mist.

"Hello? Hello, anyone there?"

A seagull squawked the only response. It hovered overhead and scolded as she ran the
length of the dock and jumped on board.

The cabin, like the car, was unlocked. Claire studied the elaborate control panel and pushed
the power button for what looked like a ship-to-shore radio. Nothing happened. She held the button
down--still nothing. She looked under the console. No switch, and all the wires appeared to be
attached. The dials and gauges told her nothing. She tried other buttons, but nothing responded.
Maybe the boat engine had to be on, but she didn't have the key.

She trudged back to the fog-shrouded clearing and the burned ruin that had been Frank's
cabin. The pervasive smoke stung her throat, made her stomach churn and her eyes tear. Or was
she crying?

It was the smoke. That's what they'd told her when she went to the morgue to identify
Tom's body. There were no visible burns. The damage was all on the inside where hot smoke
seared his lungs and stole his breath.

Her unease intensified into apprehension and then dread, the sense of impending doom
that signaled the beginning of a panic attack. Her therapist had told her that most people's panic
attacks were metallic--the taste in their mouths, the chains around their chest, the weights on their
arms and legs. Hers were made of scorched plastic, a dark gray bubble that cut her off from the rest
of the world.

She pulled the vial from her pocket and wrenched it open. The smooth container slipped
through her trembling fingers, spilling the pills. She dropped to her knees and sifted through the
ashes until she felt a small hard oval. Gratefully, she swallowed it. Ash coated her lips and gritted on
her teeth, but she didn't care. She found two more pills, swallowed one and put the other back.

The bubble's not real. Inhale two three; exhale two three. It's not real. Hold on until the
pills kick in.

The therapist had taught her to manage her panic by visualizing gentle surf. If she could see
waves breaking on a beach--one after the other, slow and steady--their rhythm would calm her,
guide her breath and help her regain control. She'd practiced until she could imagine waves in a
store, in a meeting or walking down the street, but not now. This morning, she could see only
ashes.

The bubble began to contract, closing in until thick plastic restrained her arms and legs. It
compressed her chest, covered her face and sealed her eyes. The stench of burned plastic filled her
nose and mouth. Fear of a panic attack merged with the attack itself. Her heart pounded against her
ribs, each beat sending sharp pains across her chest and down her arms. She couldn't see. She
couldn't breathe. She was dying.

* * * *

Claire drifted back to consciousness in the lethargy that follows a panic attack, unsure
where she was or how she'd gotten there, and too tired to care. Gradually, she became aware of her
body, heavy and unresponsive. Of the ash-covered ground on which she lay, of the cold, the damp,
the smoke. She turned her head and saw her car, remembered looking for Frank and finding the
burned cabin.

There it was, behind her.

She had to get out of here, had to find a phone and report the fire. She pulled her sweater
over her nose and staggered to her car. When it started, she wept with relief.

She drove as fast as she dared up the bumpy track, out of the fog and into the sunshine on
top of the levee. Once away from the eerie clearing, she calmed down. She told herself that she'd
over-reacted because of what happened to Tom. Frank and Hatch weren't children. If they'd been in
the cabin, they would have escaped. Frank said he always drove his Jeep, but it wasn't there. They
could have gone somewhere in the Jeep and left the Jag behind. Or they were out on the Gulf fishing
with some of Frank's friends on another boat. They were probably okay, but she should report the
fire.

Shortly after she reached a paved road, the extra meds kicked in. Groggy and disoriented,
Claire wandered for what seemed like hours before finding the highway, which was now full of cars
heading toward the Gulf. She squeezed in behind a minivan with surf mats tied onto the roof and
followed it to a parking lot across from the beach.

"Are you okay, ma'am?"

Claire lifted her head from the steering wheel. A man stood beside her car. He looked
concerned.

"I'm fine. Just tired." Her tongue was thick in her mouth, and she slurred her words. He
watched, frowning now, as she swung her legs out of the car and pulled herself upright. "I'm really
fine." She'd taken too many pills. He probably thought she was drunk.

Across the street, wooden stairs led down to the beach. She held on to the railing, and took
the steps one at a time like a toddler just learning to walk. Down on the sand, she threaded her way
through the towels and blankets, sand sculptures and volleyball games, apologizing when she
bumped someone, and followed the water line to a quiet spot at the far end of the beach.

The steady rhythm of the waves comforted her. One, two, three... She counted up to seven
and then backwards from seven to zero. Up to seven and back down again, over and over. She
counted waves, dozed off, half woke to count some more, and dozed off again. Water splashed her
thighs and startled her awake. The tide must be coming in. She moved back up the beach and
thought about this morning.

Doctor Bennett had warned that drugs and visualization could help manage her panic
attacks, but the only cure was to address the underlying cause--whatever had frightened her so
badly she'd suppressed it and, when reminded of it, panicked rather than face it. The attacks had
begun after Tom died. They were clearly related to his death, but even with therapy, she hadn't
been able to find how. There was nothing suppressed about her sorrow. She mourned him every
day.

What could she be afraid of? The worst had already happened.

Smoke had contributed to this morning's panic attack--she was sure of that--and it had
followed her here. Hours later and miles away she could still smell it. She sniffed the sleeve of her
blouse. The scent was in her clothes, which were also mud-stained and wet. She needed clean
clothes--and something to drink. She was dehydrated, her lips stuck to her teeth and her eyes
scratched as if she had sand under her lids. How many pills had she taken?

There were stores up on the street. Someone would be selling soda, someone would know
who to call about the fire, and there'd be a phone she could use. She stopped by the public rest room
to tidy up and gazed in dismay at the creature in the mirror--tangled hair, tear-striped face and
bloodshot eyes, torn wet clothes covered with mud and ashes. No wonder people had stared.

* * * *

Night had fallen by the time Claire returned to her carriage house. Dorian, who'd been
waiting on the porch, meowed and rubbed figure eights around her legs as she unlocked the front
door. She picked him up and carried him inside. The red light on her answering machine was
blinking. Frank? The Lafourche Parish Sheriff's Department? She'd reported the burned cabin to
them and left her number. Although once the operator learned the fire was out, she hadn't seemed
very interested.

The message was from Bobby Austin.

"I don't want to worry you, Claire. We both know Frank likes to get off on his own, but I'd
appreciate a call if you know how to reach him." He recited a phone number and after a pause,
added, "Marie joins me in wishing you and Frank the very best, a lifetime of happiness
together."

"Frank and I are
not
getting married." Claire shook her head, and pain zigzagged
across her forehead.

No one answered the phone at Frank's house. She called Bobby back and got no answer
there either. It was Saturday night and no one was home. She didn't know Jeanette's last name,
much less her phone number. She gave Dorian a can of tuna, an apology for the late supper, and
killed time picking dead leaves off houseplants while she waited for ten o'clock and the local news.
It anything had happened to Frank Palmer, it would be news.

The opening promo promised an update on the tragic story from Lafourche Parish after the
break. Claire sat through an endless series of commercials, chewing on her lip and afraid of what
she was going to hear. Finally, the news team reappeared.

"James Oreille, the seventeen-year old Raceland resident who was injured in a vehicle
explosion Wednesday afternoon, has died of his injuries. Dirk Stone brings us an update live from
the scene. Over to you, Dirk."

A dark-skinned man stared into the camera. Behind him spotlights cast bright circles onto a
parking lot. Their beams bounced off ribbons of yellow crime tape and disappeared into a large hole
burnt into the asphalt. In the background, neon signs advertised beer and snack foods. The man
raised a handheld microphone to his mouth.

"Wednesday afternoon, this convenience store parking lot was the scene of a powerful
explosion. It created the crater behind me and took the life of a young man. Doctors did all they
could, but this afternoon, James Oreille lost his battle for life. His family is too distraught to appear
on camera." He drew an audible breath. "The Lafourche Parish Sheriff's Office tells us the vehicle, an
army-type Jeep, was driven here by a white male who was inside the store at the time of the
explosion."

The camera panned to the storefront and then returned to the reporter, now holding up a
large piece of paper.

"A police artist developed this sketch of the driver, who disappeared shortly after the
explosion. A white man approximately six feet tall and 160 pounds, he was last seen wearing dark
blue or black jeans and a black tee shirt."

The camera closed in, and Claire stared at the screen, dumbfounded. The drawing looked
like Hatch. Jeanette had said Frank was fishing with Hatch. Hatch was Frank's driver. But the
reporter hadn't mentioned another person in the Jeep. Frank told her he always took the Jeep down
to his cabin, but the Jag was there.

Where was Frank? Why did the Jeep explode? Who was James Oreille?

The scene switched back to the studio. "Law enforcement officials describe this series of
events as both tragic and puzzling. Anyone with any information about either the vehicle or the
individual allegedly seen driving it is asked to call the Deputy Jason Corlette at the Lafourche
Sheriff's office." A telephone number scrolled across the bottom of the screen.