Ray stayed below the boat and waited; there were several additional thuds as bullets smashed through the sides of the boat. He hung below the capsized craft, occasionally pulling his head into the cockpit to get a couple of quick breaths. He expected the shooter to put a few rounds into the bulkheads, the watertight chambers in the bow and stern that kept the kayak afloat, but it never happened. His eyes slowly adjusted to the dull light of the water and the near-blackness of the cockpit.
Ray felt the water seeping into his wetsuit, at first very cold, then slowly warming as it absorbed his body heat. He felt a numbing pain in his leg. He needed to explore the wound, but didn’t want to change his grip on the boat. He wanted the shooter to think that he had been hit, mortally wounded, and was hanging inverted in the overturned boat, held in by the spray skirt.
He worked the cell phone free and carefully lifted it up into the blackness of the capsized cockpit. Through the plastic cover he pressed the keypad, hoping for the light to come on. If he could just key 911, they would trace the call’s location. He pushed buttons, but the keypad remained dark. He slid his fingers along the case until he found a tear. The bag was flooded. His spirits dropped. His situation was desperate.
Ray tried to calm down, carefully breathing in and telling himself to consider his options. First, how bad was his leg? He hooked the front of the cockpit with his left arm and cautiously explored his right calf below the knee. He felt the gash in the wet suit halfway to his ankle. Pushing a finger into the hole, he felt the sharp ends of shattered bone.
Stay calm
, he told himself. He practice a breathing exercise he had learned in a yoga class. His tibia was shattered, but the bleeding was probably minimal. Cold, that was the real danger. He was just beginning to shiver—the earliest stage of hypothermia. He knew his condition would rapidly deteriorate, both physically and cognitively.
How much time?
he wondered.
How much time? Was he going into shock? Was the shooter waiting? Would he want to see his kill?
Ray tried to orient himself. How far was he from the shore? If he surfaced the shooter would know he was still alive.
It would be like shooting ducks in a…
How far was he from the shore?
Holding onto the cockpit’s sides, he extended down and felt for the lake bottom, touching sand with his left foot. He guessed he was inside the second sand bar, less than fifty yards from the shore. Ray pulled his legs close to his chest to conserve body heat and let the boat drift in the wind, bringing his nose and mouth into the cockpit to breathe. He assumed that the boat would weathercock, the bow turning into the westerly wind. Carefully maneuvering, Ray moved so he was facing the stern—the part of the kayak that would drift toward the shore.
What if the shooter was waiting? Ray knew he was becoming hypothermic, and because of the wound, probably unable to support his weight. Using his teeth, he worked the neoprene glove off his right hand, unzipped a pocket in his life vest, and removed a rescue knife. He pushed the serrated blade open with his thumb. He checked the water’s depth again, less than four feet. Ray dropped his legs to the bottom and slowly and carefully positioned the boat parallel to the shore.
He saw the beam of the flashlight reflecting off the sandy bottom as someone waded toward the boat. He pulled his legs close, hoping they would look like his upper torso was hanging lifeless in the capsized kayak.
And then the world went black again. He was aware of sounds, voices, the slapping of helicopter blades, the scream of the jet engine. When he opened his eyes again he was in a treatment room, the green worm of his heartbeat ambling along on a monitor, IV lines attached to his left arm, an oxygen mask covering his face. One of the nurses, a tall, serious looking man in dull-blue scrubs, noticed his eyes were open.
“How you doing, buddy?” he asked. “Sorry we had to cut up your wet suit. Needed to get a better look at that wound. As soon as you’re warmed up a bit, we’re sending you to surgery. By the time you wake up in the morning, we’ll have you all patched together.” Ray watched him for a few more minutes and slid back into a dream.
He woke with a start, the late autumn sun flooding into the room, a different room, flowers—yellow mums—on the window sill. A uniformed officer near the door. Then the voice of Saul Feldman, his internist, “I thought you were an early riser.”
Ray tried to speak, his throat sore, his voice ragged. “What… ?
“Everything is under control,” offered Feldman. “I talked to the orthopedist, he’s a damn a good surgeon. Everything went well. A very positive prognosis; you’ll make a good recovery. You were lucky, Ray. It could have been a lot worse.” He moved closer to the bed and dropped his voice to a less professional tone. “When you came in for your flu shot, what was that, two weeks ago, didn’t we discuss the danger of late-season kayaking?”
Ray struggled for a retort, but his head throbbed from the post-operative morphine hangover. Sue entered the room and stood at the end of the bed. “Did you lose a knife?” she asked, dangling an evidence bag in her left hand.
“I’m half dead and everyone’s a comedian,”Ray said hoarsely. He focused on the knife. “I hope you found the person I planted it in.”
“No such luck,” Sue said. “Not yet. But we did find a bloody glove. He must have dropped it when he was getting in his car.”
“Anything else?”
“Brass. We found eight 223-caliber casings.”
“Interesting, think I only counted four shots. Where?”
“At the top of the dune. Right above the original crime scene.”
“Ten minutes, Ms. Lawrence,” said Feldman. “And I’ll be back to check,” he said as he walked toward the hall.
“Could you recognize him, the shooter?”
“I didn’t really see him. I just lunged from under the boat toward the light. The fact that I apparently wounded him was just luck. What else did you find?
“The flashlight and your kayak.”
“My boat, how bad?”
“You won’t be happy.”
“Damn,” he was silent for a long moment. “Prints?”
“Some on the brass and some on the flashlight and the batteries. I’ve sent them for analysis.”
“Hospitals?”
“Yes, we’ve alerted all the hospitals and walk-in clinics in the region to watch for anyone with a knife wound. So far there’s been no response. We’re getting the blood type and the DNA from the glove.”
“At the end I heard shots. Sounded like a cannon.”
“Your friend Nora.”
“Nora?”
“You’re lucky she had stopped home to pick up some things. She heard the rifle shots and called 911. Dispatch told her to lock the doors and stay in the cottage until an officer arrived. When she saw the flashlight on the beach, she grabbed her shotgun and came down to the beach to investigate. She said she wasn’t really aiming for your attacker; she was just trying to scare him away.”
“She’s lucky that old gun didn’t blow up,” said Ray. “I bet she’s got a bruised shoulder.” He lay there and tried to visualize Nora firing the shotgun. Then he asked, “Was it Ashleigh’s killer?”
“Had to be. He must have been tailing you, waiting for an opportunity to take you out.”
“But why? It makes no sense.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, here’s my speculation. You’re the
man.
You’re the one who talks to the cameras. He sits at home and sees you on the news. He’s personalized this; it’s a battle between the two of you. He thinks we’re getting close.”
“Sue, that’s not… ”
“Not what? Not logical, at least not logical to you? But I bet it makes perfect sense to the shooter. And if he’d only been a better shot… ”
“Better shot!” Ray motioned toward his leg. “He was good enough.”
Feldman appeared at the door. “That’s it for a while. Let’s give him some rest.”
“But,” protested Ray.
“No buts. For you, visiting hours are over.”
She held his hand a brief moment. “I’ll be back in a while. There’s an armed officer at the door. Don’t try to wander off. He’s been instructed to shoot first, ask questions later.”
Ray watched her leave. He stared at the ceiling tiles a long time.
Who thinks I’m getting too close? Whoever it is has got a nasty knife wound.
Before he drifted off again, he remembered that he had never found Orion.
“What’s that, the conspiracy?” asked Sue, holding onto the wheelchair with her left hand while steadying the car door.
“The food. One of the nurses told me he’s heard that it’s hospital policy to make the food almost intolerable to encourage people to leave as soon as they can.”
Once he was seated, she pulled his seatbelt out for him and closed the door. She slid into the driver’s seat and said, “I thought Marc and Lisa were bringing you dinner last night?”
“They were, they did—a lovely lamb dish, but they were late. And while I was waiting I was served a plate of tuna casserole,” Ray repeated it a second time with heightened disdain in his voice. “Tuna casserole, made the old-fashioned way with cream of mushroom soup. The dish that destroyed the palates of millions of Americans and… ”
“How did you know about the mushroom soup? Do you have a spy in the kitchen?”
“You can tell. It has a certain congealed looked to it. I don’t think there’s any other way to get that texture and consistency.”
“So, why did you eat it?” she asked, as she turned right out of the hospital drive. Cars lined both sides of the narrow street, and she had to carefully navigate between the parked cars and the oncoming traffic.
“I didn’t, I just looked at it. That was enough.” Ray paused. “They even had faded green beans on the side, and a wedge of iceberg salad with Thousand Island dressing.”
“Sounds real retro,” Sue said, waiting to make a left turn. “You know what?”
“What?”
“You’re real grumpy. It’s not like you. Must be the drugs.”
Ray looked over at her, “Your hair, I don’t remember it being that red.”
“Nice recovery. Grumpy, but still observant.” She ruffled her hair with her right hand. “I needed a little change.”
“Looks good, I like it.”
“I hear you did some hospital rounds this morning.”
“Yes,” he explained. “With my bodyguard following along, one of the young nurses pushed my wheelchair. I thought I’d look around and see if they had admitted anyone with knife wounds.”
“And?” Sue baited him.
“Nothing.”
“And that’s what we’ve heard from all the area hospitals and clinics. I’ve visited Leiston School to see if anyone is wearing a sling or has gone missing. Even had a chat with Alan Quertermous. He was most solicitous of your health and sends you his best regards.”
“I’ll bet,” said Ray.
Her tone changed. “How about Jason?”
“I guess he’s out of danger. But he’s still surrounded by tubes and wires.”
“How is he psychologically?” she asked.
“Jason has never shown much affect, so it’s hard to tell, but he seems depressed. He’s learned firsthand the dangers of playing with fire. So to speak.”
“Yes,” Sue agreed. “And Arnie?”
“There’s still no one home. One of the doctors told me he was less than optimistic about Arnie’s recovery.”
They rode in silence for several miles, Ray looking out at the bay. Finally he asked, “Do we have the Medford autopsy yet?”
Sue looked across the car and gave Ray a quick smile before her eyes returned to the road. “I was wondering how long it would take you to get back on task.”
“Well?”
“I have everything organized for you. After we get you settled at home, I’ll go through it with you.”
“Just give me a summary,” said Ray, a note of irritation in his voice.
“Grump, grump. It’s the drugs, isn’t it?”
Ray moved in the seat trying to get comfortable. “They do mess with my head. The few times I’ve had to use them.” He paused, “I tried to explain it to Saul, and he thought I was asking for antidepressants. I finally got him to understand what I was trying to tell him. He said some people react that way to opiates. He said I needed to be patient, it would take a number of days to wash all of them from my system.”
“And maybe you’re just depressed. Getting shot is not an uplifting experience.” There was a long silence as they drove north on the highway toward Cedar Bay, two lanes of blacktop that followed the Lake Michigan shoreline.
“I know I’m down,” Sue finally offered. “And I didn’t catch any lead.”
“What are you upset about?”
“Most of the same things you are. We’re not getting any closure on this case.” She took several deep breaths. “I’ve had trouble keeping my distance. And it’s real easy for me to relate to Ashleigh.” She stopped and waited for a school bus in the opposing lane. Three elementary-age children, two girls and a smaller boy, each lugging a backpack, crossed in front of them, heading for a cottage perched on a small outcropping of land near the water.
“Maybe that’s what I should be doing,” she said, motioning toward the children.